


Usurer's Mercy

by Prospero



Series: Choices [1]
Category: Merchant of Venice - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Anti-Semitic Societies, Dark Humor, Gen, Homophobic Societies, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Slash & Pre-slash (for different people), major angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-11
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-10-21 06:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prospero/pseuds/Prospero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What could he do but trust in my mercy - which was no mercy at all?" Six months after Merchant of Venice, Shylock makes an unexpected choice that causes his life to become re-entwined with that of an old enemy in need of help. Read warnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nemesis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story takes place about six months after Merchant of Venice ends, is told from Shylock’s point of view, and is set in Renaissance Italy. Some of you will wonder why I’m constantly switching between ‘thou’ ‘thee’ ‘thy’ ‘you’ and ‘your.’ There is an explanation for this at the end of the chapter.
> 
> I've done my best to get historical facts correct, but there are probably mistakes. This is, however, dealing with a canon that's not always historically accurate. As it's fanfiction, if there's a contest between history and Shakespeare, Shakespeare takes precedence.
> 
> This chapter was beta'd by Anbessette. Thanks!
> 
> WARNING  
> This story contains discussions of homosexuality, racism, religious hypocrisy, and rape. If you do not want to hear characters speaking about being hurt because of their religion or race, or about being sexually victimized, or about loving people of the same gender, PLEASE do not read further.
> 
> Edited for minor errors and inconsistencies as of 11/10/14.

It is Friday. I do not like Fridays.

Of course, to a man impartial it would appear that I do not like much of anything, these days. I certainly have not the saint's patience to deal mildly with the carousers now drunkenly caroling outside my doors. For these, Friday is the day they drink dry barrels of Venetian wine and lie with their whores. Tomorrow they'll be laid low with headaches and contrive explanations for their empty purses, and, come Sunday, they'll confess.

I will confess, also, on Sunday. Unlike most who attend church, I will never confess anything I've truly done. I create an imagined life for myself in confession. _Father, forgive me, for I have sinned._ I confess each week to a different priest, and each week I'm a different kind of sinner. Sometimes I've robbed one man, sometimes lain with another's wife, coveted what I could not have, or worked on the Sabbath. And I always finish by saying that I have lied to a hypocrite. The priests do not need to know they are the hypocrites I'm speaking of.

If I had true belief, if I was assured their Christ was the Messiah and possessed everlasting mercy—unlike his followers, that's for certain—I might confess some sins I truly am guilty of. Wrath, without a doubt. A general spite against the world. Lack of faith, for though my church attendance is mandatory since my conversion, my belief is a sham. Casting off my child, though she cast me off first.

Jessica left on a Friday.

Mistake me not—I always knew this world was a merciless place for a Jew. I somehow maintained the illusion, however, that I was untouchable as long as I obeyed the laws of Venice. But I truly lasted as long as I did only because the Christians saw me as no threat. Perhaps I was a usurer, but my so-called sin was that kind from which they could benefit. The minute I sought revenge through paths they had themselves taken, it became necessary to get rid of me.

The carousers are leaving now. I'm only glad that Bassanio and Gratiano and Lorenzo are among them no more. They are off to Belmont, all three, where Bassanio will relax in the arms of his heiress. If I could pity a Christian, I might pity that lady. I doubt she has any idea what—or rather whom—her new husband enjoys in a city ready, men and women both, to lie with him for coin. My coin, I might add, borrowed time and time again before he found a certain merchant who gave him what he wanted at no cost. A moneylender knows everyone's secret vices, whether or not he wishes to.           

I do not light candles on Friday anymore. I could if I so desired, for there's no one to spy on me. I dismissed my servants after my conversion, all but the one necessary to the maintenance of the house. Let them think it was Shylock's legendary thrift, but I truly cannot endure servants who, whether Jewish or Christian, will revile me. Besides, I require a distraction of some kind, now that my trade is forbidden to me, even if it's only to clean and cook. I use little enough of the house these days regardless. I never have guests—I cannot face my Jewish friends, not that I ever had many, and I'll be damned before I dine with a Christian. Though I expect that if the spirit as well as the letter of religious law is to be followed, according to either faith I am damned anyway. I might as well throw open my doors wide and welcome any man off the street into my house.           

No, the real reason I do not light the candles anymore is because I refuse to worship a God who seems to have forgotten me entirely. All my life, I've attempted to live by the laws of the Torah, and it's earned me nothing but a wife who died long before her time, a daughter who forsook both her heritage and me, and enough persecutors to populate a small town. Now I'm condemned to practice the religion of those persecutors if I wish to continue living. I doubt I'll find salvation or even comfort in simply lighting Shabbat candles.           

There's a fearsome racket outside. I dearly hope the carousers are not back, for they give me a headache. (And if my sole servant, the lazy Ignazio, were here, he would no doubt point out that _all_ things give me a headache). But this sound is more menacing than that which comes from those foolish noisemakers. Shouts and—I open my window and peer out to see nearly a score of men bearing torches under my window. One has a rope, I see, wound about his arm, and others carry broken paving-stones or daggers. All are dressed in peacock finery, but rich men are no better than poor ones when the murderous fever of the mob takes over. Are they here for me? I spent the first few months after the trial hiding in my house for fear of gangs like this one, out for revenge on a pretentious newly-converted former Jew.           

"Old man! You up at the window!"          

Well, that answers one question. They do not know who I am, therefore they cannot be here for me. 

"What is it? They can hear thee up at the palace, young fools!"           

"Have you seen a man run by?"           

"I've seen men run by from the duke's treasurer to the boy who empties the chamber pots. Canst thou describe him no better?"           

"Let me speak, dolt." Another man elbows the first out of the way. "His clothes were fine once, silk and velvet, but now they're all torn and muddy. And—"          

"I've seen no such man." Even if I had, I would not tell them so. I relish the thought of these fools getting lost in their drunkenness, stumbling through Venice's dark streets. "Go to!" I slam the window shut.           

The mob clears off swiftly enough—a small blessing, but a blessing nevertheless. I've no envy for their target if they catch him. From hard-bought experience I know it matters little if one's tormenters are spoiled rich brats or made of sterner stuff—if they outnumber one, one will shortly be in pain.          

I stomp down to the door and peer out to see if any of them are still loitering around. No, they have gone. I'm about to close the door again when I hear a groan from behind the corner of my house.           

I resist the urge to swear loudly. My bad luck has returned to plague me, for that is probably one of the mob voiding a belly full of wine next to my house. "I said go to, drunkard! Thou wilt fall into a canal someday, and I only hope I'm there to see it!" I'm considering helping this drunkard on his way with a kick or two when he speaks.           

_"Shylock?"_

I know that voice, and curse fate. Of all the men to land sick on my doorstep, it has to be the one I hate with more venom than any other. I'm surprised, though, I must admit. He was never much of a drinker, and I did not see him in the crowd.           

Antonio, the so-called merchant of Venice, buries his face in his hands. "Of all people, it had to be _thee_ who sees me like this."           

I squint into the darkness. What does he mean, like this? I cannot see his face, and his clothes are fine as always—but tattered, mud-covered, and this puzzles me. The man always refused to be made part of the dirt and noise of the streets. He was always the one guiding Bassanio or Lorenzo out of some tavern. It was common for him to stand watching while his friends tormented me, and I could hear his thoughts at those times clear as glass: He had no desire to dirty his hands touching the Jew. Better to double-cross him, take his money, assist Lorenzo in the taking of his daughter, and stand high and untouched.           

"Well, go on. What art thou waiting for?"           

"What am I…?"         

"Call them back," Antonio hisses. "Call them back so they can put that rope around my neck. I know how much thou wouldst like to see that."           

There's nothing I'd love better than to see a noose drop over Antonio's head, but now I'm curious. "It's _you_ they're after? Why?"           

Antonio spits on the ground. "Oh, thou wouldst like that, for me to gibber and confess my sins at thy feet? See me humiliated?"           

I smirk. "Well, measure for measure, they say."           

"Art thou not the fine Christian." Antonio starts to drag himself to his feet, but bends double and falls. I resist an urge to kick him, but only just barely.           

"Only when there's no help for it. Why are you here? The last news I had speaks of your visiting Belmont, playing at lord with Bassanio."           

Antonio laughs bitterly. "The lady Portia dislikes my way of playing lord, especially with Bassanio. And as she now holds Bassanio's purse strings, it makes very little difference what either of us wants."          

"I feel for thee," I say sarcastically. "Losing thy whore."           

Antonio lunges for me, but falls down coughing before he half-covers the distance between us. "Thou art not fit to lick Bassanio's shoes, and if thou darest—"          

"Oh, he is not thy whore? I suppose that makes thee _his,_ then. Wilt thou raise thy rates, now that Bassanio has all the coin he could want?" I know perfectly well that not a ducat changed hands when Antonio and Bassanio took to bed, but I'm enjoying tormenting my enemy.           

Antonio sags and glares up at me. "Thou takest such pleasure in this, dost thou not?"          

"I cannot deny that. So art thou playing the scorned lover now? I should say the torn clothes are excessive."          

"Thou canst not believe—" Antonio shoots me an incredulous look. "Thou dost not honestly think this was my _choice?"_          

"Well, what _was_ it then, if not your choice?"          

Suddenly Antonio seems to shrink, crumpling nearly flat on the ground. "It has a certain irony, in truth. Portia—discovered Bassanio and me together. And she accused me of—of forcing him to my bed."           

Easier for her to believe that, I suppose, than to acknowledge her husband is willing to betray her with another man. "And how did this exemplary heiress react when she learned the truth?"           

"She does not know it still." Pain flickers across Antonio's face. "Bassanio would not vouch for me. He feared losing her love. They sent me from Belmont—"          

_"What?_ He lied and told his wife you forced him?"           

"Do you require me to say it?" Antonio snaps. He coughs and then grabs his ribs as if they pain him. "Would I be here, like this, otherwise?"           

My eyes widen. "But no one believes it." Anyone with eyes can see Antonio favors Bassanio's regard for him above even his own life. His bond with me showed as much.          

"What would you gamble on that? It's known I favor men."           

Disinterestedly I acknowledge what that statement means. The people best placed to know Antonio's preferences are his friends—Gratiano, Lorenzo, Solanio and Salarino. They would have sided with the supposed victim if it was the word of Bassanio and his wife against Antonio's. In all likelihood, their words roused up that mob, as I suspect the lady Portia would have preferred to deal with her husband's indiscretions privately. _That's_ a betrayal to sting any man.           

Antonio coughs again, and gasps, clutching his stomach. "If thou wilt not call them back, then let me alone, thou—" The words get lost between rough, heavy breaths.           

I frown. It takes a great deal to stop Antonio before his insults are completed. I shove the door open farther, letting light flood the area outside. My enemy yelps and throws up his hands, but not before I see the black bruises covering his face. And if his wincing motions are any indication, there are more on his ribs and stomach.           

Bruises are far from a mystery to me, mostly thanks to Antonio, his friends, and others like them, always ready to taunt the Jew with jeers and blows. I can tell that these bruises, at least the ones on his face, were not made by fists. I had come home with marks like that after a group had cornered me in an alley and started hurling stones. If Antonio had experienced something similar, he was lucky not to have been killed.           

It occurs to me, as I watch the man I despise most choke with pain in the gutter, that this is a far better opportunity for revenge than enacting the terms of my bond would have been. No one would miss the famed merchant of Venice now. Probably I could even incite the mob to put their own justice into practice if I called them back, and not need to soil myself with the deed at all.           

But I do not, because I know from my money-lending days that those men are far from innocent, and I take a perverse pleasure at the notion of outwitting them. Besides which, putting Antonio in my debt and getting the chance to watch him flounder in suffering is a positively delightful idea. "Get up."          

"If I could, dost thou not think I should be running still? Away from _thee?"_

He has some gall to say that now, when his own friends have turned on him so. "I doubt it not for a moment. Thou always were a coward." Oh, I do love to insult him. "Also a rapist, apparently," I add for good measure, even though I know that is a lie.           

"Thou art fit for naught but misery, thou churlish, weather-bitten old miser!"        

"Tell me something I do not know, whore."           

He's like a wounded animal, cringing away from me. And something twists inside my chest. Do I _pity_ him? It seems only a kind of generic pity, the sort I feel when I see a stray dog in the street, but it shocks me still that I experience aught but glee at his pain. And I _am_ glad to see him hurting, but now it's mixed with this pity and I do not know quite what to say. So I say nothing, and instead walk over and yank Antonio to his feet.           

"Get thy filthy hands off me!"           

I roll my eyes. "It hardly suits thee to be accusing me of filth, when thou hast been rolling in the gutter. If thou dost not cease insulting me, I'll call back that mob." They're probably far gone by now, but I judge him too scared to realize it. "Get inside."           

He stills. "I understand you not."           

More pleasure wells up, along with more pity, damn it. "I have no wish to trip on a corpse when I leave the house tomorrow," I explain, with more patience than I think the situation warrants. "You might as well stay here tonight."           

I cannot tell if Antonio is agreeing to this or simply stunned that I offered, but he lets me steer him inside and lock the door.           

"Thou reekst like to a hog pen," I inform him. I intend to enjoy this. "Sleep on the floor." A Jewish floor—we shall see how he likes that. In truth, part of me is expecting him to march out directly, that his situation is not truly as bad as he's said, and now that the mob is gone, he'll return to his own house. Or at least put up some show of indignation. It shocks me when he does neither. Instead, he's turning red. Embarrassed. Now I'm puzzled again, just when I believed I'd grasped the situation. "What is it?"           

"What do you expect of me?"           

"I said, sleep on the floor. Dost thou listen to nothing besides the sound of thy own voice?"           

"I did not mean that." Now he's really flushed. It's an interesting sight, but mostly I'm vexed. I spend ten minutes trying to shame the man, and now he's embarrassed and I cannot even tell what I did to make it happen. "I mean…in return."          

I'm assuredly missing something here. "Thou art speaking foolishness. Not that I expected thee to speak aught else, but—"           

"You must know I can give you no money!" Antonio's nearing hysterical and I would be amused if I merely knew _why._ "There's but one way I can pay you, but one reason for which you would have taken me in, and though it shames me, I must agree to it! You can do whatever you like, but tell no one I am here. I'll be your whore, as you call me, just do not bring them back!" He grabs the door frame, shaking.           

Realization—and revulsion—hit me so hard I feel dizzy. He expects me to demand retribution, sexual retribution, for my so-called hospitality. Part of me is laughing maniacally at the notion that I would want that, but white-hot anger is invading all my other thoughts. This is worse than taunting me for being a Jew or a moneylender, because this time it's not just my faith or my profession he's insulting, it's my honor. Only the lowest of the low would demand that an injured guest pay for a night in bed by lying with his host. Who does he think I am, some strumpet from off the street?           

I'm ready to strike the man when I take another look at his twisted posture and ashamed face and something in my mind flips. It isn't _me_ he's calling a whore, it's _himself._ The offer he's making me is that of a man desperate for any security, even be it only a floor to sleep on for the night. What could possibly have brought this proud merchant so low? What has been done to him that he's yet concealing? He'd begged the way I had always wanted to beg when I'd been hit and kicked for so long I could barely tell the sky from the ground. And I made it worse, no doubt, by jeering at him. That does not seem so entertaining, all of a sudden.           

"I have no plans to call them back, fool," I snap, covering my shock with the familiar train of insults. "And the idea that I would want thee to whore for me is ridiculous beyond belief. And it would still be ridiculous even if I did not hate thee!" I whirl around and storm up the stairs, not bothering to wait for a reaction.           

Another group of revelers is skittering around my house, but I'm too confused and angry to go chase them away. Confused by my own actions, as I'm unable to categorize them as just the desire to watch Antonio suffer. The pity involved is undeniable. And that, I do not want. I have no interest in seeing Antonio as human. He certainly does not, and will never, see me as such. And I'm angry. Angry at my strange houseguest, for all he has done to me, all the cold-eyed stares and the disgrace before the court and my conversion, and now, despite all that, for somehow getting me to take him in.

Why does he have to be in such a pitiful state? One would almost think he is a dog, one who deserves to be kicked…horror slams into me as I realize what I just thought, what I just _did._ Have not I been kicked and called dog a thousand times? Have not I cursed my tormentors every day since? Always consoling myself by claiming they were the real monsters, that I was innocent in God's eyes at least? And now here I am, imitating the monsters, calling my enemy a whore and a dog for the sheer pleasure of hurting him, to make myself feel self-righteous and in control. _God forgive me._            

Why did I think it? What God would listen to me? Not that of the Christians, for certain. Not my own God, or at least, He who was my God, before I converted. I sit down on one of my money-chests, resting my head in my hands. First my daughter gone, then my faith denied me, and now this strange twist. Why is it that I can never predict what life has in store for me?           

There's only one thing I know for certain. For the first time since I converted—and therefore for the first time in my life—I have something I want to confess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In pre-modern English, people could choose to use 'thee' 'thou' and 'thy' or 'you' 'ye' and 'your,' depending on the situation. By Shakespeare's time, however, the distinctions had begun to blur, and so Shakespeare's choice of pronouns sometimes matters and sometimes doesn't. I follow standard rules. A person uses "thou," or a variant of it, to address a social inferior like a servant or a child, an intimate like a very close friend or spouse, or if they want to insult somebody. A person uses "you," or a variant of it, to address an equal in a more formal situation. So you'll see the characters switching between pronouns depending on whether they want to flatter or be rude, whether they are talking to a social inferior or superior, etc.


	2. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few facts you should know:
> 
> Jews were required to pay taxes to the city, but received few of the benefits of full citizens. (Shylock makes indirect reference to this fact in this chapter).
> 
> The governing body of Venice was called the Great Council, made up of various members of noble families. It was too big to handle day-to-day business, so a smaller body called the Council of Ten did that. One among them would have been the Duke, the sort of unofficial ruler of the city.
> 
> Venice was a lot more liberal than the rest of Europe when it came to homosexuality; for example, they tolerated male prostitutes. That being said, there are also quite a few mentions of homosexuals being hanged or burned alive, so 'liberal' at that time wasn't really saying much.
> 
> This chapter was beta’d by Anbessette.
> 
> Now, onwards!

I stare at the burned-out candle on my bedside table, twisted and soft like some wax-made gargoyle, and, for at least the tenth time, contemplate going downstairs. Waking up to realize that insanity probably runs in one's family is not the way most folk like to greet the morning. And it is even less pleasant when the man responsible for that conclusion spent the night in one's house and is now dripping on one's highly expensive rug. But if I do not rouse myself soon, the notoriously indolent Ignazio (he is as bad as Launcelot Gobbo; I seem to be some sort of magnet for bad service) will be up before me. Then the fool will yammer worse than a child's rattle at Purim, and I'll never be able to concentrate on what to do next with his prattle ringing in my ears.

So I get up and yank on some clothes and glare at the sun that's seeping through the cracks in my window—it has long puzzled me why sunshine is always so frivolous—and stomp down, blinking in the light. No, sadly last night was not an unfortunate dream produced by Ignazio's bad cooking. Antonio's still here, and still asleep on my rug. Now that I see him, a part of me issues a reprimand for not at least giving him a blanket. I tell it to be quiet. I owe Antonio no particular courtesy.           

The bruises on his face are bad, I note objectively. He will heal, though, which at the moment seems rather a pity. What's less certain is how soon he'll get over the terror of being hunted as a trapped animal. Injuries, if not fatal or disabling, will eventually be cured. But the fear they engender can affect the way a man walks and talks and looks out at the world for all the days of his life. I despise Antonio less for the few times he truly laid hands on me, and more for the threat to my life and livelihood he took care to be sure he represented. That fear, brought on by he and others, crippled my soul. Never a day was I secure, and therefore I could never trust enough to show love even to those few I did care for.           

It appears that his and Bassanio's foolishness, and Bassanio's wife's not-unwarranted jealousy, have punished Antonio more thoroughly than I ever could. Something inside me eases just the smallest bit at that, and I'm reassured by the feeling. I'm no different because, for some unknown reason, I gave Antonio refuge in my house last night. I'm still the cantankerous, stingy man who takes joy in the suffering of others. 

But oddly, I feel more _relieved_ than anything else. Why is that? Hating Antonio, wanting revenge on him, is not some sort of burden that I'm glad to put down. But at the idea that the revenge has been exacted, that it's over and done with, I feel suddenly lighthearted. I do not have to carry this hatred anymore. I do hate him, of course. But surprisingly, I seem to prefer it when I do not _have_ to.           

Antonio stirs and blinks in the light, apparently not sure where he is or how he got here. I decide to enlighten him.           

"You are in my house, Shylock's house. We hate each other and God only knows why I let you in, but I did and here you are, so stop staring like a barnacle-brain." Insults always make me feel better.           

"Shylock?"           

"No, I'm Gratiano. I abandoned my wife, snuck back to Venice, broke into Shylock's house and put on Shylock's clothes."           

Antonio actually has the cheek to snort with laughter. "The idea of Gratiano in your clothes…" The man is not supposed to be able to understand a jest. How very inconvenient.          

I roll my eyes. "Yes, he might almost pass for a decent moneylender, if he ever learned to do anything on time. Were he God, Creation would have been a day late and the week would be eight days long."           

He peers owlishly at me. "You are a very inconvenient person."           

That's one way of describing my relationship to Antonio. Murderous rage on one side and eternal scorn on the other might be more accurate. "How so?"           

"You are not supposed to be able to understand a jest." Oh, the irony.          

"We call this sarcasm. Study and thou mayst one day be proficient in the art thyself."          

"Who's this 'we' thou speakst of? Some cult of forcefully converted former Jews willing to kill in cold blood?"           

"That's not sarcasm, oh great proficient, that's just an ordinary insult."           

Antonio glares at me. "What am I doing here?"           

"Well, let us think. Thou wert running from a murderous mob, landed on my doorstep and made a great deal of noise, rather distasteful to the ear, I might add, and then—"           

"That's _not_ what I meant." He gestures impatiently. "Why am I in _your_ house? Why did you let me in?"           

"That," I say, "is an excellent question."           

And naturally, Ignazio just has to pick this moment to appear.           

"Master Shylock! You shall never believe my news!"

The man must be mad, for he insists on thinking I care what happens to him. Considering the events of last night, though, it's just possible that we are suited to each other. Not all seems to be right with my wits, either.         

"I have the most incredible—who are you?"         

Ah. He's spotted Antonio, who's not looking his best at the moment, what with the mud and the bruises and the look which signals clearly that he just woke up from sleeping on the floor. I briefly consider telling Ignazio that Antonio is a burglar, just so he shall throw him out and I will not have to, but that's not exactly plausible, considering that this house is full of money and the man's just standing there.         

Before I can come to any definite conclusion about how to explain Antonio's presence, he himself speaks. "My name is Antonio. Thy master kindly let me sleep here last night."          

Kindly? _Kindly?_ I'm not _kind._ Who does Antonio think he is?        

"Oh, I see." Ignazio's face shows plainly that he does not, but that apparently will not get him to close his mouth. "It's odd, but you have the same name as a man Master Shylock despises. Despises in _truth._ I doubt if he should give him a drop of water were he dying of thirst. But leave that, I love to have guests! He never has any. I should have left long ago, but he's the only employer I can find who will not throw me out after three days."           

"I'm sorry to hear that."          

Stop being polite, Antonio. It bothers me.         

"Oh, you need not be sorry. I'm also the only servant who'll stay with him for more than a week." Ignazio, I could kill you, but then who would empty the chamber pots?           

"Are you going to cook this morning, Master Shylock, or should I?"           

Antonio looks really baffled now. "You cook?"           

I _love_ to cook. I do not know why I hired kitchen staff before the trial. But it does not suit me that Antonio should know of it. "Yes, occasionally."           

"Occasionally? You hardly let me near the stove." I could throttle him so easily. "But I suppose you will wish to entertain Signor Antonio. I shall contrive something for us." He skips out.          

Antonio looks at me. "Us?"           

For a moment, I think he's asking why Ignazio is going to eat with us. (If he did not, he would be forced to eat alone, as I have no other servants. And when lonely, Ignazio becomes glum and the house only gets half as clean.) But then I catch the look on Antonio's face—somewhere between resentful and hopeful—and I realize he wants to know if I'm going to let him stay for breakfast.          

"Yes, us. You are going to eat here, and you are going to talk to Ignazio so that I do not have to."           

And with that I stride into the kitchen. I do not care for Antonio's opinion so very much that I'll give up my favorite activity merely because of his presence.           

"Who is he, Master Shylock?" Ignazio demands as soon as I enter the kitchen. He has not even started to cook, infuriating man. He probably knew I would come and take it over, regardless of Antonio.           

"He's a foolish man who went and got himself into some trouble, as will thou if thou dost not quiet," I growl, more out of habit than anything else. He will be talking anyway, no matter how intimidating I am.          

Ignazio's eyes widen. "Is he the Antonio you hate? Why did you let him in? Did you feel _sorry_ for him?"           

That he talks too much plagues me enough. Why must he also be intelligent and talk too much? "Thou art using up my patience rather early in the morning," I warn him, opening the cupboard. Breakfast is a fairly insignificant meal, and I did not rise early to bake fresh bread. I have no desire to waste good cooking on Antonio anyway.           

He shrugs. "Do I not always?"          

There's cheese bread here, made only yesterday. "I do not feel sorry for him. He's done nothing to deserve my pity."           

"He looked weary as a beggar. How did he get those bruises?"           

"I did not inquire," I snap, getting out a knife to cut the bread.           

"So you must know. For if you did not, you would have asked."          

"And thou dost wonder why thou canst not keep a position for more than two days, insolent clod-pole?" I realize belatedly that I'm brandishing the knife in the air, though whether the imaginary throat I'm cutting belongs to Antonio or Ignazio I'm not sure. Shaking my head, I lower the tool to the bread and begin slicing it.          

"Three days, verily, not two."           

"Make thyself useful and bring us some water."           

"I already did. It's by the door."           

"Then fetch cups. Just get out from under my feet."           

"Yes, sir, Master Shylock!"           

Out he goes, thank the Lord. How did I, the most unsociable man in Venice, end up with the most talkative servant in Italy?           

Because you _disliked_ having quiet, respectful servants, says the part of me that states uncomfortable truths. You enjoy having someone with whom to be constantly angry. You hate going through a day without hearing a single human voice, even if you do not favor talking yourself.           

I decide these unwelcome thoughts I keep having are Antonio's fault. The sooner I get rid of him, the better.           

Gathering up the sliced bread, I march into the hall. Antonio is curled up in a crumpled heap on the floor, and when he hears me, he actually jumps. Ah, yes. I remember that. After a Christian to whom I had lent coin crept up behind me in an alleyway with a knife, I started at every small noise for days. I even remember screaming at Jessica and making her cry when she tiptoed up to me, unnoticed, for a surprise. She was five. I never did apologize for that.          

"Here," I tell him brusquely, thrusting the bread under his nose.           

I stalk off to the opposite end of the hall—no point in staying too close—and sit down to eat. Antonio chews carefully, as if he fears he'll injure his jaw. Maybe he has broken it. The man should see a physician, but I doubt he will. He would have to explain how he came by his injuries. When Leah, my wife, was alive, she dragged me to a doctor in the ghetto. He was used to treating such injuries and asked me no questions. I do not know if Christians possess such physicians.           

Antonio breaks the silence abruptly. "How can you live here? You have been in this house for years. But all the other Jews live in the ghetto."           

It's true, and one of the reasons I've been as isolated from most of them as from the Christians. "I rented this house from the owner. 'Twas closer to most of my clients. I bought it when I converted." When I was forced to convert, rather. I take a bite of bread. "Not that it's aught of thy business."           

"Art thou finding there are certain advantages to being a Christian?"           

That stings, but I'm not about to let Antonio see just how much. It'll certainly take me but a moment to refute the idea that he has done me a favor.           

"A _few_ things? Dost thou jest? I've found my life's calling in Christianity. There have never been so many hypocrites to mock before."           

Antonio stops eating. "Hypocrites?"           

"Oh, absolutely not. Why would I even think such a thing? Verily, they are such kind people. Follow their Christ's gospel to the letter. Work to earn their place in the kingdom of heaven."           

"Yes, in truth, they do," Antonio hisses through gritted teeth.          

"Speak for the priests." I shrug. "Watch them get fat with Jewish money. Maybe they think they can buy their way to salvation."         

"Shut your mouth!" Antonio scrambles to his feet and I jump up too. "How dare you talk that way about the faith— _your_ faith—"           

I let out a strangled laugh. "Faith? Do you want to talk about faith with me? I had faith in human nature until I met Christians. I had faith in the law until I met a Christian lawyer and a Christian judge. I had faith in God before a Christian stole my daughter and a Christian took half my property."           

"You cannot believe God would stand behind a Jew trying to kill one of Christ's people. That's the sin you all were condemned for in the first place."          

"And what about the sin you were condemned for?" I snarl. "Do you believe God stands with _sodomites?"_            

"Were you born this hateful, or did it come from years of practice?"          

"You were a good teacher!"          

And of all the things I say, it has to be that that gets to him. He pulls in his breath sharply and sits down hard. "I should never have come here."           

"Wouldst thou prefer to be dead?" I say unsympathetically.           

"I might as well be!" Antonio's practically spitting venom. "You know as well as I what will happen when someone recognizes me wandering the streets. They'll take me up before the Council of Ten and charge me with sodomy. And my friends will see me die under the law, though they knew my preferences and cared not. Maybe they'll even testify against me. They'll want me brought to justice because they all think I forced my friend! And you—you'll be glad of it, will you not!" He gasps and covers his face.           

He tells naught but the truth about what his punishment is like to be, if the law finds him. In truth, he might find his way to some other city and begin again, but as I watch his face twist up, fists clench, and a half-insane look come into his eyes, I know it's not so simple. When I had taken my fall in the court, lost half my money, my faith, and very nearly my life, the experiences of years of struggling had allowed me to adapt, start over. Antonio has had no such practice, propped up as he always was by friends and wealth. Even with these benefits, when I had demanded my pound of flesh, he practically begged for death, unwilling to prolong the strain. Now he's at the end of his rope and his mind is giving out.           

"I'll hide you."

_What?_ Where did that come from?           

"You'll what?"           

"I'll hide you. For a few days." My mouth is a traitor, I swear, because my mind simply could not be responsible for this. "Despite your demoted intelligence levels, you ought to be able to decide where you will go by then."           

"Shylock—that's—"          

"Close thy mouth before a bird flies in and builds a nest inside." I must needs depart before I say more words without knowing why I say them. "I'm going to find that useless servant of mine. He should be back by now." I turn on my heel and head for the kitchen.           

"Wait! You—"           

Ignazio comes out of the door. Well, that's one escape route disqualified. "I got the cups, Master Shylock. Why were you shouting so? You'll scare the pigeons."           

The man enjoys feeding birds. I have not a use in the world for songbirds, as they are far too cheerful, but I do like pigeons. They remind me of myself—no one cares for them either. Antonio finding that out would be a somewhat of a larger scale disaster.          

"Be quiet, Ignazio." I snatch both cups away from him and shove one at Antonio. "Here." He takes it not. "Before my arm falls off, please?"        

Antonio bites his lip. "Thank you."           

"It's merely water," I respond automatically, too busy trying to locate another escape route to take in what he said.          

"No. For letting me stay. For a few days, as you said. It's very…decent of you." Antonio speaks as if the words taste bitter.          

First my mouth, now my ears are playing tricks. I could have sworn Antonio just _thanked_ me for something.           

Ignazio blinked. "Decent? Master Shylock? I thought you two hated each other."          

"That's the first correct statement thou hast made today," I inform him. "If thou wish'st to talk, talk to Antonio. I have accounting to do."           

I do not, of course, but that's always a plausible excuse. I'm halfway up the stairs before I realize I'm still holding both cups of water.           

"Do not mind Master Shylock." I hear Ignazio's voice echo up behind me. "He just does not want to run the risk of getting caught in civil conversation with you. It's unlikely, but he's a cautious man."          

"I don't understand." That's Antonio. "One moment he's shouting insults in my face, the next, he offers me a place to stay. Is he always so…contradictory?"         

"Waste no time trying to understand what goes on in Master Shylock's mind," Ignazio advises. "You'll only give yourself a headache. I've worked for him for three months and I _still_ do not understand him, in truth."         

Well. That makes three of us.


	3. Game of Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe the laws about Jewish doctors treating Christian patients changed a few times over Venetian history. Sometimes it was permitted and sometimes not.
> 
> Beta'd by Anbessette. Thanks!

I storm through the upper levels of my house with a cup of water in each hand, seething. I have not been this angry in months. I'm not sure whether I am more enraged at Antonio for his scorn or at myself for offering him a place regardless. Spiteful sinners, the both of us, I think grimly as I tear open one of the chests I promised myself I would go through, left over from the last time I had to sell off belongings. We each deserve as much wrath as the other can inflict.           

But rage is a familiar emotion, a safe one—confusion is not. I'm used to my life being clear-cut, used to there being victims and perpetrators. Now, one of those perpetrators is become a victim, and the one who brought him to that sorry state is his dear friend. It shocks me that Bassanio would lie about such a potentially explosive matter. He demonstrated at the court that his credit with his wife meant less to him than Antonio's life. Then again, sodomy is a serious offense, and Bassanio is soft. Perhaps he jumped at the chance to escape the charges. Most would.           

By all rights, I should be grateful to Antonio's former friends for tarnishing his name and driving him from his house, and by these means enacting my revenge for me. But the very thought of being in debt to them for such cruelty—and though Antonio richly deserves it, I will not deny that it _is_ cruelty—repulses me, for reasons I do not at all comprehend. After all, I was ready to inflict plenty of pain on Antonio myself. Why does this break of charity feel so much more insidious than a dagger to the heart? Perhaps for the same reason that Jessica's betrayal hurt more than any taunt from an outsider.           

Vigorously, I push these thoughts to the back of my mind as I begin to shake out the linens in the chest. I think this one has not been opened since Leah died, all those years ago. I feel the familiar pang for the loss of her turquoise ring, which Jessica traded for a monkey. The taking of her mother's ring makes me less bitter than her giving it away with not a thought.           

I hold the embroidered linens and remember when they were crisp, before the undersides of the white threads were the only parts not gone yellow. No, I will _not_ give in to these remembrances, not with my nemesis in the house. Instead, I move to another chest, and begin removing wrapped pottery. But somehow the cloth unfolds and one of the goblets slides out, shattering on the floor. I stare blankly for a moment at the glittering shards, and experience a sudden impulse to smash the rest of the set. 

Sorting through these chests was a bad idea. I should have gone to the market instead. Well, I still can. I pull myself up and check my coin purse.           

"Master Shylock? Are you going out?" Ignazio says gingerly from behind me.           

"Market," I growl, pushing past him.           

"Ah—should I—I mean, what should I do about—"           

Antonio. Oh, yes. Please throw him into the street head first, Ignazio, and throw out these disturbing thoughts in addition.           

"I shall be back in time for the midday meal. Meanwhile, thou might as well give Antonio some water with which to wash. He smells like a sewer."           

"Truly?" Ignazio asks innocently. "I did not notice."           

Why is the man only polite when I want him to be rude? It's…verily, it's rude.           

The market is crowded, as usual, and I have no trouble making my way through unnoticed. I prefer that. Any undue attention reminds me of the days when I wore the yellow badges all Jews are required to don. That always ignites in me a combined feeling of shame for having escaped the torment by conversion, relief for the same reason, and fury on behalf of those who are still so mocked, easily identified by the badges.           

I realize only now that I dashed out the door without even checking to see what we need at home. Scowling, I try to concentrate. Flour, that's certain, and perhaps some onions and carrots—more, unfortunately, than I would usually buy, with Antonio here. The loss of half my property to the state has done nothing to cure my chronic thriftiness. We still have dried meat, at least, so I do not need to get that. It is as well. I have little choice but to purchase from shops that are not kosher, these days, but the habits of a lifetime are not easily broken. I'm trying to remember where I got the cheapest flour that had no weevils in it, when I hear a familiar voice.           

"Shylock?"           

I turn around, and it's Tubal, my friend Tubal—not as close a friend as he was when we were both young and starting in business. I'll readily admit that is my fault, what with becoming less and less sociable as the years went by, and more and more preoccupied with my repressed bloodlust against Christians. My conversion was no help either. But I'm glad to see the man, and I tell him so.           

"I'm pleased to see you, too, Shylock. You look well."           

I laugh harshly. "No need to flatter me, Tubal. Six months of being despised by most everyone does nothing for one's looks."           

Tubal smiles a little. "You always did value frankness."           

"It's the only good quality the members of my new faith have. They are especially honest when it comes to how they feel about me."          

"Still dabbling in graveyard humor, then?"           

"Dabbling? I'm the world's foremost expert."           

"That you are."           

An uncomfortable silence falls between us.           

"Well…it was good to see you, Shylock."           

He goes to walk away, and I realize suddenly that I do not wish it. I have no family left, no one comes to my door asking to borrow money now, and I'm forbidden from attending services at the synagogue. It's amazing how quickly one can be forgotten in the absence of relatives, friends, and patrons. I think I have not had a real conversation with anyone but myself for months. I feel suddenly that if I let Tubal out of my life now, I shall go without company until the day I die, and then Ignazio will probably chatter to my corpse for a few weeks before he notices. I'm not truly old, but loneliness ages one quickly, and I've experienced that, in varying degrees, ever since Leah died. Nearly fifteen years ago now.           

"Tubal? Wait a moment."           

He turns around. "Of course. What is it?"         

Now my idea seems rather less intelligent. He has been friendly, but in his place, I would resent me for the widening gap between us. But there's little I can do, except try.           

"Tubal, would you dine at my house this Thursday?" Antonio will certainly be gone by then.        

Tubal looks briefly surprised, but then his features stiffen. "If you insist."           

"If I _insist?"_ I had been prepared for a flat 'no,' but this I do not understand. Why is no one acting as they are supposed to today? "I do not _insist._ I should certainly _like_ it, but if you feel as if it would be a chore—"          

"Will you be serving pork, then?" Tubal's voice is emotionless.          

I'm so shocked by the abrupt turn from semi-friendly to outright vicious that it takes a moment before I can speak. "If that was supposed to be a jest, I'm not laughing!"         

"How strange. Is that not what Christians do, laugh at a Jew's expense?"           

"I am _not_ a Christian!" Several people stop and give me strange looks. I lower my voice. "Tubal, that's the most insulting thing I've heard today, and if you knew about the rest of my day, you would appreciate—"         

Tubal's shoulders sag. "I apologize, you did not deserve that. But by my reputation, Shylock, you cannot expect a hero's welcome after you convinced everyone who did not believe it already that Jews are bloodthirsty murderers! Many men have someone they would like to kill, but that does not mean they do it!"         

"I do not _want_ a hero's welcome!" I hiss. "I did not ask to be a model of morality, either! Tubal, frankly, ever since you came and told me Jessica was nowhere to be found, I have not known which way is up. And after last night, I do not even know who I am anymore! I just want to invite my friend to dinner like an ordinary man!"         

Tubal opens his mouth, closes it, and frowns. "What happened last night?"         

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to get rid of the beginnings of a headache. "Will you walk with me? I do not want anyone else hearing this." 

**OoOoO**

"You are jesting."           

"Unfortunately, no."          

"Truly, I must have heard you wrong."           

"Well, here's a good test. Does it sound like a thing I would do?"           

"Not at all!"           

"Then you heard me right."           

"I cannot believe this." Tubal is staring at me. "You mean that after all these years, you have actually decided to _listen_ to all that talk about mercy and forgiveness?"         

"Mercy? Forgiveness? Not a chance."           

"You let him in, Shylock."           

"Do not remind me."           

"That means either you committed an act of mercy, or you actually _like_ the man. Take your pick."           

A pause.           

"Act of mercy."           

"I thought so."           

We have arrived outside my house. It took me all through buying vegetables to work up the courage to tell Tubal what I had done, which had only made him more curious. After detailing the opening circumstances of the situation, I had blurted out the truth and promptly plunged into bargaining to avoid having to answer his questions immediately. It had taken the whole walk back to my house to properly explain what I knew of Antonio and Bassanio's history.           

Tubal shakes his head. "I know not whether to shout at you for being an idiot or congratulate you for showing some humanity."           

"Humanity is generally idiotic, so it's all one." I pause. "The offer to dine on Thursday still stands…"           

"I shall think on it, I promise."           

I understand that's as much as he'll give me now, and unlock my door. "Send me word if you—"           

My words are abruptly cut off by a terrified cry within my house. Horrified, I yank the door open and stride through, Tubal close at my heels. Ignazio comes dashing out of the kitchen, glancing around wildly.           

"What is it?" I demand. "Was that thee?"           

Ignazio shakes his head. "It must have been Signor Antonio. I gave him some water, as you said, and he went in there." He gestures towards my storage room.         

Obviously my servant is too scared to investigate for himself. "Wait a moment," I tell Tubal, and push the door open a crack to slip through.         

Antonio is kneeling by the basin with his shirt off, bent nearly double and coughing so hard I wonder how he has time to breathe. For a moment, I think the man has tried to slit his wrists, as I watch blood pooling in his hands and on the floor. The truth, I see quickly, is nearly as bad. His lips are stained nearly black with the fluid, and although I'm no physician, I know that coughing up blood is extremely serious.          

My nemesis stares up at me with a hopeless look in his eyes and I know instantly that he's aware of his situation and does not expect me to do a thing about it. He fully anticipates that I'll let him die in spasms on my floor.         

And if I hadn't seen that look, I might have considered doing just that. It would mean the end of all doubts about who I was or whether I could change. It would be justice. But I did see it, and when I realize that's what he thinks of me, of all Jews, that we live for nothing but revenge, I become furious. I'll show him who understands mercy better, he or I.           

"Tubal!" I shout, striding from the room. "Go to the ghetto and get Dr. Levitis."           

"Have you taken sick?"           

"No. Antonio needs a physician, now."           

"But Levitis cannot—"           

"Who's going to tell? I know no Christian doctors, so unless you do—"           

Tubal raises his hands in surrender. "Very well, I shall go. How urgent is it?"          

"Urgent as, were he here now, I'm not sure it would be soon enough."         

"As in he might—"          

"Die? Yes. Hurry!" Tubal flees. "Ignazio, get a blanket and some water," I order, running back into the room. Antonio is curled in on himself, practically choking as he spasms. 

I'm not sure exactly how I can help, but by my oath I'll try, and I know from my own past injuries that it's hard to breathe when you are twisted up as he is. I grip Antonio's shoulders and pull him back to lie flat. "You have to breathe," I tell him, "or you will not live until the doctor gets here."           

Antonio half-collapses to the floor, obviously too weak to resist. Now that his torso is exposed I can see bruises blooming across his chest and stomach. If his ribs are broken, and those ribs have punctured his lungs, there will be naught anyone can do, but there's no need to tell him that.           

"Breathe. Slowly. If you try to go faster, your breath will catch and you'll just start coughing again."           

Antonio gasps. "Not—enough—air—"          

"You can manage! You do not need to take so many breaths, just deeper ones!"          

He's trying, I can tell, but more and more blood keeps coming up. The only thing I can think of to do is pry his mouth open and clear out the fluid that's choking him. I'm disgusted and half-afraid he'll bite my fingers off. After all, I hate him and I have my hand down his throat. I would bite, in his place.           

Am I imagining it, or is he breathing more easily? He had better be, curse him, now that a good bit of his blood is on me. I have Antonio's blood on my hands. _That's_ irony for you.        

Ignazio comes running in with the water and blanket. "What should I—" He stops abruptly, staring at the bruises and the blood and mucus that Antonio is lying in and I'm kneeling in. "Excuse me," he says in a muffled voice, puts down what he's carrying, and dashes for the door. I truly hope he makes it to the privy. The blood is sticky, and drying on my hands and Antonio's chest like cracked pottery.           

His coughing is slightly less, and I reach for the water. "You'll do better if you can wash your mouth out, I think. Here, drink this." Antonio accepts the water with shaking hands and takes a drink. He does not do very well at keeping it in his mouth, though, and it drips down his chest. "That's foul," I inform him. 

Antonio wheezes. "What part—of this situation—is not foul?"

I find myself in the irritating position of having to agree with him. "I know what this is, thou art aware. It's revenge for leaving thee alone to be talked at by Ignazio."           

"Would not—revenge have been—to stay healthy?"          

I sigh. "Verily, thou art irritating when thou art right. Thankfully, it does not happen often." My mouth is talking, but the rest of me is relieved that blood is no longer spurting from my nemesis's mouth. Irony again.           

"You have—my blood—on your hands. That's—ironic."           

"I'll show thee ironic when I pull out thy tongue and tie it behind thy ears. Be quiet and save thy strength for breathing."           

Antonio does not exactly fall silent—his breaths are rasping terribly, and I can tell he's trying to squeeze out a few indiscernible words—but he's quiet enough. Unfortunately, that gives me room to think, which I'm not keen on doing just now. I reach for the bucket and cloth and begin to wash the blood off my hands, trying to distract myself.           

What other injuries is Antonio hiding? I had no idea he was so badly hurt. I had seen him limping, obviously, and he appeared to find it hard to sit or kneel comfortably, but I'm not enough of a physician to be able to identify which injuries might be a serious threat and which are merely painful. He truly should have seen a doctor right away, but I can hardly be blamed for that, he's my worst enemy! Absently, I move on to washing the blood-soaked body part closest to me. 

And how in heaven and earth am I to persuade Tubal to say nothing of this? And Dr. Levitis, if he even comes? Not to mention Ignazio, now that I think of it. None of them have reason to keep Antonio's location a secret. _I_ have no reason to be keeping his location a secret! The consequences could be serious if anyone finds out I'm housing an accused criminal. I've never broken the law in my life, why am I risking doing so now for a man who means less than nothing to me?         

"Um…Master Shylock…what are you doing?"           

Ignazio is being dull, as usual. "Is it not obvious? I'm washing blood off of…" I look down and realize I'm not even washing myself anymore—instead I'm scrubbing blood off _Antonio's_ hand. "By all the devils of hell…" I drop the hand as if it were a hot coal.          

"Why are you stopping?" Ignazio asks curiously. "He did not seem to mind."          

"I mind!" I'm about to explode, and by instinct whirl on Antonio. "I mind having blood all over me and my floor! I mind having thee in my house throwing insults at me! I mind suddenly questioning every action of my life! But mostly, I mind having my entire sense of who I am turned upside down and inside out, because if I was who I thought I was, I would have none of these problems!"           

Antonio gasps, his breath hitches, and he curls up into a ball again. I try to straighten him out and Ignazio runs to help, but it simply is not working. I break out swearing as I try to hold his writhing body still. I go through all the curses I know (and moneylenders hear many, in every language) and then begin inventing them. For some reason, it seems to help and Antonio manages to relax a little. Sighing in relief, I throw out one more curse for good measure and notice Ignazio… _giggling?_            

"Art thou mad?" It seems a logical question to me.           

Ignazio snorts. "Did you just curse Signor Antonio's ancestors by saying they must have slept with their shoes on?"          

"What? Why would I say that?"           

"I could have sworn you—"           

"Shylock?" It's Tubal, and he has Dr. Levitis with him. I can judge the exact moment when they both see the mess of blood. "That…does not look good."          

"It's not good." I'm only too glad to hand this over to another man. "Thank you for coming, Doctor. Now, will you please do your job?"          

Dr. Levitis ignores my curtness. He's the doctor I used to visit when I was injured, and he's used to my ways. Or maybe he's just distracted by Antonio's condition. As I watch him lower his ear to my enemy's chest, I'm grateful he's dedicated enough to his craft to not make a fuss about treating a Christian, even though it's illegal. There does seem to be much lawbreaking in my house today.          

Tubal draws back. "I am—ah—I should go."          

"Thank you for getting the doctor." I gesture at Levitis, who is now carefully feeling Antonio's ribs. Tubal nods and slides out.           

Levitis draws back, and speaks for the first time. "Well, Signor…?"           

"…Antonio," Ignazio volunteers when I scowl at him.          

"Well, Signor Antonio, you have several broken ribs, but I should say you are relatively lucky, as none have pierced your lungs. I believe the source of this blood you have been coughing up comes from the equivalent of a bruise on your lung. I've seen men recover from worse, but you'll certainly need to rest for a few days, perhaps longer, and be very careful as you move about. You will also need to eat well, to replenish the blood you have lost here. And I would advise you not to try and talk for the next few minutes." Antonio nods carefully.           

Levitis turns to me. "Is there a reason Signor Antonio cannot seek out a Christian doctor?"           

"Frankly, he could not afford to seek _you_ out, but I feared he was dying. Suffice to say, the fewer people who know where he is, the better."         

"Hmm. We shall speak about that. But if it is so, I should examine his other injuries."           

"That's an excellent idea," I say, relieved I did not have to bring up the notion myself. "He was limping and—" I stop as I see Antonio behind the doctor, shaking his head vigorously. "What is it? You need a physician to examine you."           

"I cannot," Antonio chokes out.           

"Why?"           

Antonio sets his jaw stubbornly.           

"Signor, it's obvious you need medical attention," Levitis says calmly. "I must press it."          

"No."           

My temper is already bubbling near the surface. If he believes I plan to go through what just happened again merely because the stubborn man does not wish to be treated by a Jewish doctor, it will not take long to set him straight. "Thou wilt be treated and thou wilt do it without complaining, or I shall throw thee out into the street now!"           

"Master Shylock!" Ignazio objects.           

"It's for his own good." I turn back to Antonio. "I do not want a corpse in my house, and I expect thou dost not wish to be tossed on the tender mercy of Venice at just this moment, so close thy mouth." I turn to Levitis. "Do your work, please. I'll have payment for you when you are finished." It galls me to waste money on Antonio, but I cannot very well watch the doctor take a loss after I called him here. "Ignazio and I will wait outside, and you shall fetch us if you need assistance." I steer Ignazio out by the shoulder and slam the door. "Wait here," I order him, "in case Dr. Levitis needs help. I'm going upstairs."           

I drag myself up the stairs and curl up on the chest whose contents I was sorting earlier. At the moment, all I want to do is hide from the world. If I'm perfectly honest with myself, that's all I _have_ done since the trial. And now, suddenly, it seems the world is coming through the door and I feel completely overwhelmed.          

The Christians say usury is a sin, but what they truly curse us for is the supposed greed they believe causes us to take interest. Seen in an impartial light, I suppose it's difficult for a common laborer, or even a merchant, to look at a moneylender's coin and realize that little of it truly translates to wealth. Most is constantly leased out to lenders, no more useful than a horse hired out to others is in plowing one's own field. It's only the interest we can touch. Not that I've ever been capable of seeing things impartially. One reason I despise Antonio is his habit of lending money without interest, and lowering the only source of income I have. I'm so thrifty, truly, because I hated earning money. All of it was brought to me by the resentment of others. Even those grateful for a loan at first would come to hate me later, when they were forced to repay more than they received.           

So I do not believe greed is a sin I suffered from as a moneylender, but perhaps I've suffered from it somewhat since I gave up that profession. For who but myself has been on my mind these six months? My disgrace, my shame, my failed revenge. There was a time where I would have cared little for such thoughts, would have, perhaps, taken a perverse pleasure in becoming the monstrous Jew with which mothers scared their children at night—I knew they did so, for more than once had a child run from me screaming in the street after seeing my yellow badge. Now, all that remains is a fervent desire to prove them wrong. To again beat them at their own game—but this time, the game of mercy. That's a safe enough assumption, for it allows me to believe that I derive satisfaction from victory over the Christians, and not merely from helping a fellow human being, especially one I revile so. 

I'm not sure just how long I sit there, absently rubbing the remnants of dry blood off my hands, when I hear Ignazio's voice. "Master Shylock?"

What does he do here? "I told you to stay by the door."           

"I did, but the doctor came out and said he's done, but he wanted to speak to you before he left."          

"Probably wants his payment." I seek out coin enough for a fair fee, and descend the stairs, Ignazio trailing behind.          

To my surprise, Dr. Levitis does not immediately leave after receiving his payment. Instead, he stands uncomfortable for a moment, staring at the floor. "Signor Shylock, may I speak with you alone?"           

"Of course," I reply, surprised. "Ignazio, leave us." My servant nods and trots off down the hall. I turn to the physician. "What is it you wish to say?"           

"Does that man in there truly have nowhere to go but this house?"          

"In truth, I'm not sure," I admit, "but he despises me, and I him. I doubt he would still be here if he could leave."           

"Do you have any idea how he came by his injuries? He would tell me nothing."           

"I have not asked, but based on the circumstances under which he came here I expect that he was beaten by a mob. Why?"           

Levitis takes a breath. "Because if you have aught of human mercy in you, you will not deliver him back into their hands if you have the power to prevent it. The man suffers from a wound to the head, broken ribs, torn muscles in his leg, and lacerations and bruises in many places. But I've seen men beaten worse. Naught but a few times have I seen..."           

"Seen what?" I demand. "What else did they do to him?"           

The physician looks at me. "They raped him," he finally said in an emotionless voice. "Brutally."         

For a moment my mind is blank, attempting to process this. Then a feeling like acid burns through my stomach and throat, and my muscles feel oddly slack. "How—how do you know?"         

"There are marks such savagery leaves on the body, but what made me first suspect was his unwillingness to let me touch him to treat him. Men are rarely so shamed by straightforward injuries."           

"Why was _he_ shamed by it? He had no cause!"          

"Perhaps he believes himself weak for being unable to stop it." Levitis rubs a hand over his eyes. "Such ones, the few brave enough to acknowledge their torment to me, often confess they believe the fault is their own. The women believe that if they had been more modest, and the men that if they had not consorted with certain company, the violation would not have occurred."           

"But that's nonsense. The shame lies with those who committed the deed! Why, we Jews might as well blame ourselves for the persecution visited upon us, as such victims may blame themselves for being so hurt."          

"Many do blame us, as you well know."         

"They are wrong!"          

"That makes it no less the case. The same is true here. Many women must marry those who forced them, and none raise a voice in their defense. Men and boys I know have hanged and drowned themselves in shame. I know not who or what will prevent Signor Antonio from doing the same. Had he friends or family, they might help him through this. That's why I asked."           

The facts the physician is relating to me make a horrific kind of sense. I know humans can be cruel. Why should that cruelty be confined to Jews? And we can derive at least some comfort from the fact that we are a people, and can suffer our torments in unity. Jews are marked with badges, but there are no signs to show who of Venice live with their pain alone. But I still find it difficult to believe that Antonio, of all people, will not seek retribution. "Will he have no revenge?"           

"And what good would revenge do him? He would still have the pain once it was enacted."          

This is far too much for me. This whole situation was, from the beginning, far too much for me. "I'll make inquiry as to his family."         

"That is well. But if, as you suspect, he has nowhere to go, I've left some medical supplies and instructions with your servant." Dr. Levitis hesitates at the door. "I would prefer not to take this risk again, but if things grow dire, you may call on me. Good luck, Signor Shylock." And he's gone.           

I stare at the door for a few minutes, trying to gather my wits together. What the physician said has rocked me to the core. How can it be that Antonio, the untouchable, who even evaded legal revenge by the laws of Venice, is caught in such a trap? Unfortunately, I know the answer to that. Antonio's new-made enemies would have sought to enact upon him the same crime he supposedly committed. I know they would have, because it's something I might have done myself, had I believed aught of the lies. Had I not tried to do so once? He had ripped my heart from me emotionally, and I had seen fit to cut his out literally.           

For some reason, I'm reminded suddenly of an incident that occurred some months ago, when Ignazio first came to serve in my household. One of us had bought some meat that had not been properly preserved, and it had begun to rot. Instead of cleaning it up, however, we had argued endlessly about who had bargained for the meat in the first place. When Ignazio finally submitted to my authority as the holder of his salary and gotten rid of the molding mess, half the house had smelled of it, and it had taken days to get the stench out. What I had grudgingly realized afterwards was that if I had just swallowed my pride and cleaned up (even though I insist it _was_ Ignazio who bought the meat) neither of us would have had to deal with that awful scent. It was not my fault, and the cleaning would not have been pleasurable. But it was my responsibility nevertheless.           

The last thing I want right now is to assist Antonio. But one thing is plain to me through all my confusion: I'm sick and tired of living in a world where such violence is held the fault of the victim, because I've been that victim many a time. I cannot force the world to my will as I could Ignazio, and even if I could, how much could Antonio's friends do for him? They have no idea what it means to be a victim. If I want aught to be done to change this situation, I'll have to do it myself. I do not want to walk in there and speak with Antonio now. It's not my fault, and it's certainly not my pleasure, to try and fix this problem. But it's my responsibility nevertheless.          

I push the door open.


	4. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Anbessette. Thanks!

Antonio is huddled up on the floor, wrapped in the blanket Ignazio brought. I did not plan how I should inform him what I intend, and I find myself merely staring, incredulous at the turns life can take—that he should be forced to accept my help by the man he had loved, and I should be forced to provide that help by nothing but a conscience I had been sure was dead.          

"He told me."          

My nemesis jerks his head up. "What?"          

"The doctor told me what happened to you."          

Antonio looks away. "I know not of what you speak."          

"Yes, you do. Who forced you?"          

A spasm goes through his body. "I said—"          

"I was not born yesterday. You can stop lying."          

"It never happened!"          

My blood curdles at his denial, at the idea that he is, deliberately or not, protecting his rapist. "Will you swear, then, that you speak the truth?"          

"What right have you to demand truth from me? You are not my judge!"          

"Then swear on one who is."          

"The doctor's a liar!"          

Oh, gratitude is miraculous. "And you are another. _Will you swear it?"_           

"There's nothing to swear! _Nothing happened!"_          

His voice cracks on the last word and he yanks the blanket over his head. I know that urge and it tugs at me. The urge to crawl under the covers in the dark and never come out. To play that if you shut your eyes and imagine you are safe, nothing can hurt you.          

I hate this man for making me feel again.          

When Jessica was young, and I still had time to play with her, she loved to hide around the house and have me seek her out. I learned soon enough that she was far too good at concealing herself for me to find her more than one time out of ten. The trick was simply to sit and wait, pretending to be preoccupied with something else. Eventually, she would get curious as to what I was doing, and emerge. I suppose the same might be true for Antonio. I pull up a stool and sit on it. Let us see if this Christian has more or less patience than a four-year-old.         

Less, by far. Barely five minutes pass before he peers out from under the blanket. He frowns at me. I raise an eyebrow at him and he ducks back under.        

Two minutes later, he emerges again. This time he raises his eyebrows. I make a rude hand gesture at him and he glares at me. I feel a ridiculous urge to laugh. If only Ignazio could see us now.          

Now he's ignoring me. Even if he did not prefer men, it's patently obvious Antonio has no children. No parent of anyone over three is fooled by the _I-care-not_ trick. Then again, I should not be surprised. He never truly passed the two-year-old _it's-mine-if-I-want-it_ stage.          

Well, if we are going to be children…two can play at this game. I catch his eye and make a face at him. He looks away.          

"You are no whore, by the way," I say conversationally. "Only an idiot. Though I suppose no more of an idiot than I used to be."          

Antonio blinks. "What?"          

I shrug. "You seem to believe, as I once did, that if the whole world pretends the horror never happened, it will truly be gone. It's ludicrous. You do not forget, and start believing you are mad because everyone else goes on as they did before."          

"Nothing happened." But he does not sound as convinced now.          

"If you want to ruin your life, you are welcome to." I get to my feet. "But there's no point in ruining it on a stone floor. Dr. Levitis said he left some things for you with Ignazio."          

"What are you trying to say?"          

"This is my house," I inform him, in case he has forgotten. "I have few guests, but as of now, no one who stays here is allowed to be a blithering fool. And in order to _not_ be a blithering fool, you are to get off that floor, get the doctor's supplies, put on some clothes that are not covered in blood, and rest while _I_ think about what in heaven or hell I'm going to do with you. Oh, and if there is argument, I shall throw you into the street. Understand?"         

"Ah. Not really."          

"Well, neither do I. Congratulations. Can you walk?"          

"I think so."          

"Then get off that floor and come with me."         

I intend to take Antonio to a higher level of the house, but I realize when we reach the staircase that he probably cannot get up there by himself. Sighing in annoyance, I wrap an arm around his shoulders and help him up the shallow steps. It feels ridiculously like leading Jessica to her room after she fell and scraped her knees, as children do. Why is my daughter in my thoughts so often today? I know the answer, though I'm loathe to acknowledge it. For the first time since Jessica abandoned me, I have someone to protect.          

We reach the top of the stairs without mishap, and I lead Antonio to one of the rooms for guests I thought I would never use. "Rest here."          

I thought he'd be relieved to see the chairs and bed, but he looks—afraid. That irritates me. Here I am, trying to treat him with some decency, and he stands there looking frightened? "I told you to rest."          

Antonio eyes at me with a half-desperate look. "You won't get me so easily!"       

Of all the replies I expected, that was not one of them. "Excuse me?"          

"Please—you cannot!" That's genuine _panic_ in his voice. "Not now!"          

"Well, ah—I suppose you do not _have_ to sit down." Maybe I should fetch Ignazio to translate for me. He surely knows the language of the mad.          

Antonio cowers against the wall. "You cannot want this, can you? You hate me!"          

"Yes, we have established that…want what?"          

"I will mess up your sheets, I'm covered in blood!"          

"Sheets can be washed." I roll my eyes. "Water and soap, you may have heard of them. Why do you care?"          

"Because it's too soon!"          

I blink. "Too soon? I'm speaking of sheets." Then it hits me. "You think I'm going to…force you. Again."          

Antonio's mute misery replies in the affirmative.          

I actually take a step back in revulsion. So this is how he sees Jews. Rapacious monsters practicing their lust on injured men. I want to throw something, break a window, punch the wall, and let Antonio feel the full force of my anger and, yes, hurt. What stops me is the realization that I may have had some part in contributing to this idea. I hated him, had not cared to act with humanity towards him, any more than he had felt the need to treat me well. But I never wanted this.           

One act. Just one act in one night brought a proud merchant from insisting he deserved favors from all to believing he deserved charity from none. Was this the revenge I had so often wished for? God have mercy on me if it were so.           

I take a breath. "Antonio, listen to me. If you are to stay here, there are a few things you must understand. Do you attend?"           

"I cannot—I—"           

"Close your mouth and listen! I despise you, and you me. We both know that. But no matter how much we despise each other, no matter how many times you insult me, or no matter how helpless you are, I will never, _ever_ touch you against your will. While you are my guest in my house, you are safe. I will not let you die on the floor, I will not hit you, and I will not rape you. So kindly get that through your thick skull and stop assuming I will hurt you at every turn, because I'm weary of being so insulted!"           

Antonio is staring at me. "Are you serious?"   

"Completely."           

"But—how am I to believe you? You tried to kill me once!"        

"You cannot be sure. You will just have to trust me."           

Antonio gives a strangled laugh. _"Trust?_ You want me to _trust_ someone now? Anyone?"         

"You may be afraid," I concur, "but what choice do you have?" It's true. What can he do but trust in my mercy—which is no mercy at all?          

Antonio is still crouched warily on the other side of the room, and I'm fairly sure he will not lie down until I'm gone. "I'm going to fetch the doctor's supplies. Try to sit down or thou wilt fall and hit thy head, though I suppose that as far as intelligence goes that would hardly make a difference." There, an insult. I feel better now.           

Ignazio is in the kitchen, searching for something to eat. Usually I would cook a larger meal around now, but as much as I would love to lose myself in the simple process of creating food, I doubt that Antonio wants anyone else to know how badly he's injured. Which leaves me to look after him, curse it all. "Ignazio, cook something for us. And I want that basket Dr. Levitis said he left with thee."           

My servant salutes me. "I shall, Master Shylock. The basket is over there."        

"Did he say what was therein?"          

Ignazio nods. "I already took the poppy out. The doctor said to infuse it and it would be good for the pain. There are jars of marigold and yarrow salve in there. Those are for wounds, he told me. None of them needed stitches, but the larger ones should be bandaged. All Signor Antonio can do is rest, verily. Do you think he will be well?"           

I rub a hand over my eyes, knowing Ignazio is not asking about the physical pain. "To be completely honest, I know not. But we will do what we can."           

"Yes, Master Shylock." Ignazio bobs his head up and down. "I will find something to eat."          

I grab the jars from the basket and find some cloth for bandaging in one of my chests. On second thought, I find a shirt and breeches in another before I climb the stairs. Were I Antonio, I would feel better even partially clothed, and what he wears now is merely spreading the blood all around my house.           

I enter the room to see Antonio staring blankly at the wall, in exactly the position I left him. Growling with frustration, I take him by the shoulder and push him down onto a stool. "Wilt thou not even do what's good for thee?"           

Antonio looks at me dully. "Would not that show an unprecedented amount of sense on my part?"           

He's trying to keep up with me, I can tell, but he just has not the strength. I doubt he wants me here, but he cannot do all the bandaging himself. "Take off your shirt."           

He nearly flies off the stool. "You said you would not—"          

I could really have been more tactful. "I'm _not going to._ But you cannot bandage your own back."           

"I need it not."           

"And you are an unbiased party to say so. Come, what harm could I do you having seen your back that I could not do you now?"           

"Thou despicable wretch!"           

I understand pretty well why a person insults another, as I do it enough myself. It's to regain a sense of his own power. "Yes, I know you hate me. But as long as that is plain, would not you rather hate me for putting salve on your back than because I let you alone to get a horrible, dripping, fly-infested infection?" Maybe fly-infested is a bit much, but if it gets the job done, I'm not one to complain.           

"Fly-infested…" He shudders. "Thou art such a bastard. Very well, put it on." He jerks his shirt off defiantly and throws it into the corner of the room. If he wants it, _he_ can go pick it up. I'm certainly not going to.          

Antonio only really has one large cut on his back, and it does not look deep, but it's long, and the skin around it is encrusted with blood. I dip a piece of cloth in the water and carefully begin to clean the wound.           

The action feels strange. My hands are not used to being gentle. I tend to deal in coin or knives, hard metal that I cannot hurt. This careful, light touch I'm using now is new for this man who calls himself Shylock, whom I seem not to know anymore.           

"Why should I bother?" Antonio's voice is flat.           

"What do you mean?"           

"I'm broken. No matter how many wounds I bandage, how much I sleep, how long I wait, the pain will not stop. Why should I even try to fix myself?"           

"How should I know? I've tried to answer the same question for nearly fifteen years."

**OoOoO**

My weekly trial is upon me, and it is in a terror of a mood the next morning that I dress myself for church. I shove half the breakfast dishes off the table and order Ignazio to clean them up, kick over some bundles of cloth I sorted, snarl at the sunlight for glowing cheerfully through the windows, and pick out the rustiest, oldest coins I can find for my part in the weekly tithe.           

My servant flees for church the moment he decently can, no doubt afraid I would dump a bucket of canal water over his head in my state of general wrath. Antonio is spared the worst of it, being still asleep. I managed the afternoon before to bandage his back without insulting him more than twice, and, with Ignazio's help, got him to eat some food and put on the clean clothes I brought. He still refused the bed, and when I checked in on him later (purely to see if he was vengefully wrecking the room, _not_ because I was concerned) he was sleeping on the floor with a blanket and pillow. He has been there since and may well still be when I return.           

Being fairly sure, as I am, that no amount of attention in church will save me from damnation, I spend the service constructing an elaborate story for confession as to how I found a bag of coin in the street, and kept it for myself instead of inquiring as to whose it might be, and how I was not entirely sure if that were stealing or not and I desperately needed the priest's advice, etc, etc. I expect this melodramatic soliloquy is the only pleasure I will get out of my attendance today, but the chance to deliver it is somewhat delayed, as it seems many people have sinned this week and wish to confess.           

"Signor Shylock, well met indeed!"           

Oh, no. Please not him. Not again.           

"I hope you have no plans for this afternoon. As you know, the Duke has given orders that I am to instruct you in the faith."          

Why could the Duke not have given orders that I be stretched upon the rack once a month, or some such thing? But no, instead he set Brother Rafaele the utterly hopeless task of instilling in me the tenets of the Christian faith every four weeks. And of all the priests he could choose, he picks the one who simply refuses to hate me, no matter how much I subtly insult both him and his religion. I had forgotten that I was to go to him today.           

I'm ready to tell the man my head hurts dreadfully and there's no way I can concentrate when I remember the true headache I have at home. Dealing with Brother Rafaele is marginally easier than dealing with Antonio. "I am prepared."           

"I'm glad to hear you so ready." That's a fine jest. But I follow Brother Rafaele back to his room, and, as usual, wince when I see his crucifix.           

Brother Rafaele smiles. "Why do you shrink from the image of Our Lord?"           

"Why do you _think?_ He has _nails_ in his hands and feet. It bothers me."           

"It's good to feel sympathy, but never forget that if mankind had not been led into sin, Christ would never have had to suffer so."          

"Not exactly my fault. I cannot be responsible for the ideals of a culture that treats people as hammering targets."           

Brother Rafaele sighs. "Why do you always feel the need to prove me wrong?"           

"I do not." I do, of course. The only reason I've learned anything about Christianity is so I can correct him every once in a while. "I was merely confirming my knowledge of _the faith."_            

"Signor Shylock, I know your conversion was forced, but is there nothing in the fact of Our Lord being willing to suffer for humanity that moves you?"          

"If _I_ were Our Lord, as you say, I would hardly waste my suffering on humans. They seem rather beyond redemption."           

"I do not deny there have been those who have behaved in a less than Christian manner towards you." Brother Rafaele flips the pages of his Bible back and forth. It's an odd habit of his I've noted during our visits. "And there are days, indeed, when I despair of any of those under my charge reaching heaven, for in my studies I've come to believe that much more is required than confession, church attendance, and tithes to save one's soul."           

Curious despite myself, I lean forward. "What _do_ you believe is required to reach heaven?"           

Brother Rafaele shakes himself slightly. "It's but a fancy of my own, I defer to my fathers in such matters. Now, if you would please open your Bible to—"         

I wave this away. "Forget your fathers, and leave the Bible for now. I'm more interested in what you think than in what some moonstruck men living millennia ago wrote in a language I do not understand, in a country I will never see."           

"I believe this is the first time I've heard you acknowledge any worth to what I say."           

"Perhaps we should call Father Benito. Have him record this as a miracle. You can be a saint. Come, what is it _you_ believe is required to reach heaven?"         

"Well, it is said in the Holy Writ that what you do to the least of us all, so also do you do to the Christ. I suppose that what I verily believe is that you must give everyone you meet the same kindness you would give your Lord. It's simple, I grant you, but, as I've found, rarely easy."           

That would explain why he tries so hard with me, despite all the rudeness he has endured at my hands. "At least you make the attempt."           

"I merely thank the Lord that some of the sheep I am shepherd to only feel the need to confess drunken meanderings."           

I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. "Some of those _drunken meanderings_ ruined a man's life on Friday last."           

Brother Rafaele raises an eyebrow. "Are you subject to torments for your former faith still?"           

"It's not myself I mean." Why did I say anything? Now I shall have to explain.           

"It's strong to say a man's life was ruined. Did you see aught that disturbed you?"           

"I saw none, but I trust the word of a physician who says he's injured perhaps past cure." I see no reason to go into the true nature of those injuries, nor to mention that it's Antonio's sanity I fear for, more than his body. Or that I _would_ fear for, if I cared.           

"Is this a friend of yours?"           

That's Christian charity for you, or rather Christian stupidity. "I have no friends. I found him in the street."           

"Then how was he seen by a physician?"           

"I took him into my house. He had nowhere else to go."           

"And you called a physician?"           

"Yes, I just said that. I offered him a bed too, but he insists upon sleeping on the floor."           

"And he's no friend of yours?"           

"In truth, I dislike him. He has not treated me well."           

Brother Rafaele blinks. "And you took him in anyway?"           

"I _told_ you, he had nowhere else to go."           

"Are you sure you have not been reading your Gospel lately?"           

"I always read my—"           

"No, Signor Shylock, I know you usually do not. But I wondered if perhaps you had happened to read the story of the Good Samaritan."           

"What? No. Is it about a stubborn infidel who refused to convert and was struck down by lightning?"          

Brother Rafaele rolls his eyes. "No. But we can read one of those, if you would like."           

"I shall decline, thank you. What's the story of the Good...?"           

"Samaritan. It's a parable of our Christ, in the Book of St. Luke. The story goes that a lawyer came to Christ, asking what he must do to gain eternal life."           

"So you are saying that I'm a lawyer and you are Christ?"           

" _No._ In heaven's name, every time I talk—"           

"I was just _asking."_            

"—you interrupt me. May I please continue?"           

"If you must."           

"Or we could read about the infidel struck by lightning."           

"No." I wave a hand. "Go on as you were."           

"The lawyer comes to Christ, asking what he must do to gain eternal life. But Christ knows the lawyer is aware of what he must do, so he asks him right back: 'What is written in the scriptures?' And the lawyer, being a well-read man, replies as the scriptures say: 'You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your mind, and love your neighbor as yourself,' and Christ says, 'That is what you must do.' But the lawyer is looking for a loophole, so he says, 'Who is my neighbor?' and Christ tells him this story…"          

"What? You mean this is a story about Christ telling someone a story? Is that not a bit roundabout?"          

"Infidels. Lightning."           

"I _apologize._ Go on."           

"In the parable Christ tells, a man is walking along a road and is set upon by robbers, who beat him and take his money."           

I wonder what else they did to him that's not written in the Gospel.           

"Two great and holy men of the synagogue passed him in the road, and neither stopped to help him. In fact, they crossed to the other side of the road and refused to even look at him. But then a Samaritan passed by."           

"A man from Samaria?"           

"Yes. They were considered unclean by the Jews of that time. But in spite of that, it was the Samaritan who cleaned the man's wounds and helped him to a safe place. And after telling the lawyer this story, Christ asked him which he thought was the man's neighbor, and the lawyer—"           

I jump up. I'm so tired of being insulted that I'm almost prepared to take the Duke's penalty for marching out of this church and never returning. "What have I done to deserve this of you?"           

_"What?_ Deserve _what?"_           

"I'd rather have heard about the infidel getting struck by lightning than a story that just showed Christ believed Jews were lower than Samaritans—"         

"He—how do you—"           

"—by showing that even the people they believe unclean are better than Jews, more merciful—what do you Christians know of mercy, anyway?"           

Brother Rafaele stares at me, and, to my shock, begins to laugh. "Oh, Signor Shylock, you have missed the whole point."           

"I have?"           

He nods. "The people Christ was talking to _were_ Jews. The men of the synagogue Christ was speaking of were the ones they respected…"           

"And he was showing them they were wrong to respect—"         

"Stop interrupting me! What Christ was trying to say was that it did not matter how holy someone was, what mattered was whether they showed the man mercy. You also showed mercy, you did not think of yourself."           

I snort. "I think I thought of nothing _but_ myself. At first I just wanted the chance to torment my enemy some more, and then every time I looked at him it was as if I were seeing myself when I was still a Jew."           

Brother Rafaele tilts his head from side to side. "That's a curious statement. I always assumed that the Samaritan helped the beaten man in spite of the fact that the Jews had beaten his people down. Perhaps instead he helped because of that."          

"What? You mean you do not know everything? I cannot believe it! How shocking!"          

Brother Rafaele groans. "Signor Shylock, I do believe you are the most aggravating individual I have the pleasure of knowing."         

"Thank you."


	5. Some Trust Betrayed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to Anbessette for beta'ing.

"Master Shylock! I never told you my wonderful news!"           

Ignazio likes Mondays, I think because he will not be bidden to church for a whole week. If fidgeting were a sin, the man would surely be damned. My bad mood has carried over from Sunday, but, as usual, he seems oblivious. I do spend most days in a foul temper. Perhaps he has grown immune.           

"What's thy wonderful news, Ignazio? Hast thou found a potion of frog's legs that cures the compulsion to talk constantly?" I drawl, kneading the morning bread. "Oh, but that would be too much to hope for, and the Lord chides in us the sin of covetousness."           

"No!" Ignazio cannot even tell when he's being mocked.           

"What is it, then?"           

"You'll never guess!"           

I rub the bridge of my nose with the back of my floury hand. "Probably not, so thou should just tell me."         

"Three guesses!"           

Why is it that no one with whom I associate can act their age? "Thou found'st a bag of gold."           

"No!"           

"Bag of silver?"          

"No!"           

"A very large jar of honey?"           

"Oh, come. You are not _trying."_            

"Trying what?" It's Antonio—still limping, I immediately notice, even as I bite my tongue to keep from throwing some generic insult. "And what was that about a very large jar of honey?"           

"Master Shylock could not guess what happened to me on Friday!" Ignazio informed him. "I am ecstatic!"          

"Has Carnival come early?"           

"No, same time as usual."           

"There can be only one solution, then." Antonio smiles, but it looks forced. "Thou must be in love."           

"I am! And she's the most beautiful girl in the world. People have said that about other women, but they were all wrong. And she has said she loves me too!"           

"Good," I grumble, forming the bread into loaves. "Thou canst talk to her instead of me."           

"She has said she'll marry me, if I ask her!"           

I nearly knock all the dough onto the floor. _"Marry_ thee? Thou, get married?"           

"I mean, of course, not yet," Ignazio stammers. "But it would be a great help to you! It's all very well doing the housework ourselves, but neither of us can sew, you know."         

"I do not want a woman crowding into my kitchen and insisting on doing everything her way," I snap, crossing to the oven with the bread.           

"Rosalba's not like that!" Ignazio protests. "She is the sweetest woman in the world!"           

"Obviously to thee. Thou art in love with her. But hast thou asked her if she wants to live in a house with a crotchety former Jew who goes through servants like butter?"           

"I did not say exactly that, but I did try to warn her. She said she loves me and even if she did not, nothing could be worse than serving where she does." Ignazio looks suddenly guilty. "Pray, do not tell Signor Giocobbe I said that."           

"I know Giocobbe's tendencies," I mutter.           

"Tendencies?" Antonio asks, sounding mildly surprised.           

"He likes to bed maidservants when drunk," I inform him bluntly. More pleasantness I would rather not have learned as a moneylender, but did. "And he's not a gentle-as-a-lamb kind of drunk." I turn to Ignazio, who's wincing at my last statement. "If thou wish'st to marry this Rosalba and bring her to serve in my house, I want to meet her first. Bring her here—" I quickly calculate "—tomorrow."           

"Yes, sir, Master Shylock! Oh, thank you!" And before I can do a thing to stop him, he throws his arms around me, gives me a quick embrace, and dashes out to get the water.           

Antonio is staring at me. "Do not look at me like that. I merely want him to have someone to whom to talk so I shall still have my ears in five years."           

"Do you plan to still have _him_ in five years?"           

"Heaven knows, but as far as I can tell he's the only servant in Venice who'll put up with me."          

"Unless his lady Rosalba pulls a close second," Antonio comments, sitting down gingerly.           

"You are an optimist," I reply absently. The careful way Antonio is moving serves to remind me of what was done to him. Frankly, I'm shocked he's functioning as well as he is.          

Or he may just be in denial. That cannot be good for him, but what I might do about it, I have no idea. 

**OoOoO**

As my visit with Tubal cut short my marketing endeavors, I'm forced to go out again later in the morning. I enjoy the anonymity that wandering through crowds gives me, and drive unusually tough bargains on everything I buy.          

"Skinflint," I hear one merchant mutter as I turn away from his stall. I relish the insult—I do take such pleasure from squeezing all the money I can get out of a transaction.          

Today I feel a desperate need to rejoice in some man's pain. That used to be a constant source of amusement in my money-lending days—watching my customers squirm and fidget and make excuses, and give me murderous looks when I raised their interest. There was once a time when I felt uncomfortable with such sadism, but that quickly vanished when I discovered how little mercy I would be shown, were I in their place.           

But in the past few days, I've been, if not kind, at least more charitable than I am wont to be, and that just will not do. I've already tried being good to others, and it brings no profit. I remember well when I gave a man an extension on his loan in my early days. He went away cringing and thanking me, and the next day, when I greeted him in the Rialto, he casually backhanded me across the face and went on speaking with his friend. On his next default, I called up the law to auction off his property. The only power I have comes from being harsh, and I simply will not, cannot, let go of that.        

And then I see her.           

She's walking with Lorenzo, wrapped around his arm, and scanning the bolts of cloth in a nearby stall. I know that shrewd look well. It speaks of the bargaining she learned at my knee. For half a moment I see Jessica, Shylock's daughter. But then I shake my head and see the husband beside her, the crucifix around her neck. There's no deceiving myself. She is Jessica, Lorenzo's wife. A Christian's wife.           

Bitterness wells up inside me when I see the ease in her eyes, the rosy glow of her cheeks, and hear the confidence in her voice. This is not the shy, mouse-like girl I raised. She is a woman grown, and it's her husband, not I, who gave her that grace. Heaven knows I loved my daughter, but it seems the love I gave crippled her instead of helping her flourish, and it stings me deeply that Lorenzo seems to have succeeded where I failed. I feel the uncharitable urge to lash out at the two of them for mocking me with their happiness.           

A man half-running after his companion slams into Jessica from behind, knocking her down and grinding her fingers into the ground with the heel of his boot. Lorenzo grabs him by the shoulder; I'm too far away to hear what he says and only catch the tail end of it when I move closer.           

"—where thou art going!"           

"Oh, I apologize, Signor Lorenzo," the strange man replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm so sorry I knocked over thy Jewish harlot."         

What happened next happens fast. One second the man is standing there sneering, the next, he's splashing and spluttering in the canal, and Jessica, Lorenzo, and several passers-by are staring at me. It takes a moment for my mind to catch up with my actions, for me to connect my own outstretched arms with the man climbing, dripping and fuming, from the water.           

Before my thoughts get beyond the idea that that was a very foolish thing to do and I should walk away while I still can, the man struggles to his feet and shoves me hard into a nearby stall, slipping in the puddle from his own clothes and falling on top of me. One of the flimsy roof-supports buckles and I find myself enmeshed in a tangle of cloth and wood. Unable to see properly, I try to slide back and out from under my attacker, who apparently cannot see either, because his blows are wild and miss more often than not. My attempt at escape is not terribly successful, however, for before I slide more than a foot I smash my head into the corner of something very hard and have to flop back to the ground.           

"Here now! What are you doing?" The fabric from the stall is yanked away from my vision and I see the owner of said stall leaning over us. "Trying to ruin my business?"           

"He pushed me into the canal!"           

"He insulted my daughter!"           

"Thou art her father?" the man on top of me says incredulously. "Then thou art no better than she is! Dog Jews, both."           

Lorenzo comes up behind us and pulls my attacker away. "Do not venture to speak that way to my wife!"           

"She was in my way, the filthy—"           

I lunge forward and grab the stranger around the neck before he can get the epithet out. They say a cup that's too full is bound to spill eventually. I've used my patience for the week on the tormentor in my house, and I have none left for the rest of the world.          

The owner of the shop grabs me and pulls me back. "I think that's a bad—"           

"Get thy hands off me!" I snarl, jerking away. "Go to the devil's darkest hell, all of thee—and take thy cursed faith along!" I march away amid indignant shouts from various sources, but ignore them all. Some part of my mind is still operating rationally and recognizes that I have to get away before doing something that gets me in real trouble. No one who knows who I am will have any compunction about doing serious damage.           

I stomp through the streets, angry enough to wish I could revert to childhood, throw mud and bang sticks against walls and knock people into piles of refuse. It feels suddenly ridiculous to believe I could be of help, that anyone might profit from any connection with me. Those I most care for seem to be those I wound most deeply—did I truly think I would do any good starting a market brawl over an insult my daughter probably wishes had just been ignored, or settled by her husband? If Antonio has any sense, he'll get out of my house just as soon as he can. If Ignazio has any sense, he'll not bring his bride under my roof. How am I anything but broken?          

I kick my way into the house and nearly crash right into Antonio at the bottom of the stairs. Deservingly or not, he gets the full blast of my anger. "Get out of my way!"           

"What happened to _you?"_            

"Leave me alone!"           

"Where did all that blood on your face come from?"           

"I tripped." It's the oldest excuse and Antonio does not look convinced.           

"You _tripped?_ Oh, come, Shylock, people who trip catch themselves on the knees and elbows, not the head. Verily, what happened?"           

I'm so angry my eyes are blurring over. "What happened? Fine, I'll tell thee _what happened!_ I saw my daughter get knocked over in the market by some core-rotted maggot who called her a harlot!"           

"But…why…there's nothing to dislike about your daughter. She's a good Christian woman."           

That's it. That's truly it. "Yes, she's a Christian wife now, thou self-righteous sodomizing prig! But if she was still a Jewish girl, thou wouldst shove her against the wall for sport and the priests would give thee a pat on the head! And thou sayst thou art not a hypocrite? I say thou art thrice as fit for hell as any of my tribe!"           

"Thou thinkst thou wilt get away with this?" Antonio is seething, but he cannot match my fury. "Thou always tries to get away with everything, with thy usury cheating honest folk out of a living, and raising half the city to an outcry when they cannot pay!"        

"What did I ever get that I have not paid for in blood time and time again? And how dost thou propose to make me pay for what I say? Thou hast nothing now! Thou art as much of no one as I've ever been, and I'll talk to thee how I please!"           

"Thou art nothing but a monster! Dost thou care what hell thou dragged me through when I could not pay my bond? What kind of a man demands such a terrible price, and all for coin! Money means more to thee than a man's life, than thy daughter's happiness, than—"           

"What money _means_ to me, fool, is a minuscule compensation for a lifetime of being despised! Am I a miser? Am I greedy? Thou taught me that greed! And if thou didst not want a pound of flesh cut out of thy heart, thou shouldst have remembered to teach me some mercy!" I laugh, crazily. "But I forget myself. Thou knowst no more about mercy than I do!"        

He's shouting in my face. "I gave thee thy life! I gave thee another chance, and thou sayst I know no mercy?"           

"Yes, a life of shame! The _chance_ to belie myself! I'm glad thou art hated now as I've been hated. I'm glad thou hast nothing!" And then I'm running, running as fast as I can up the stairs, and there's blood in my eyes so I can hardly see.           

Somehow I make it to my room, stumble to Leah's chest, and drop down in front of it. I would have thought I would be delighted to scream at anyone just now. But all I feel is misery. I cannot forget the image of Jessica curled up on the ground, cannot stop seeing Ignazio wince when I mention Giocobbe's tendencies, cannot block from my ears Dr. Levitis's voice telling me his diagnosis.           

I cannot understand the way my hands are shaking, the burning in my eyes, or the ache in my chest. Have my daughter and my servant and my enemy practiced witchcraft upon me, that I can feel their pain? Each breath I take _hurts._ Limbs and joints get stiff from sitting too long and must be stretched, and now my lungs and heart feel as if they are stretching too, and my nose stings terribly. It's only when tears with blood swimming in them drip onto the lid of the chest that I understand. I'm _crying._          

I have not cried in years. I never allowed myself to show pain. And instead of finally breaking and grieving for all I've lost, I'm weeping for others. It's ridiculous.          

Somehow I have to stop this. My body and mind _cannot_ be so out of my control. I grope blindly in the chest and pull out a ceramic goblet from the set inside, and smash it against the wall. The thin rim of the goblet explodes into shards, and the base crumples in my hands. I spring up and grind the fallen pieces into the floor with my heel, clinging to the feeling of power it gives me.           

I should feel _better_ after venting my anger at Antonio, not worse. Instead it seems as if I've betrayed some trust. True, he's a smug, opinionated hypocrite bred with a silver spoon in his mouth, but my wrongs of today are no fault of his. That would make no matter if Antonio were healthy—were he as he once was, the darling of the Rialto, naught of my railing or insults could overcome him—but he's a vulnerable, sick man, bereft of friends and wealth and self-respect. I can hate him and still acknowledge that.          

This cannot happen again. I did not asked for it, but it seems that, for now at least, Antonio is my responsibility. To force another household to shelter a wanted man would be unfair, and to turn him out into the street now, with my knowledge of his injuries, would be to deal with him as cruelly as he dealt with me. As long as Antonio _is_ under my care, I must act as the adult in this scenario, as he's obviously incapable of it.           

I merely wish I had someone to advise me, for I'm no doubt in over my head here. Preferably someone more used to dealing with people, and less used to hating them.         

I groan aloud. I know to whom I may go. Well, no point in putting it off.           

"Ignazio!" I call, descending the stairs. "Thou art needed!"           

Ignazio pokes his head from one of the side rooms. "What's your will, Master Shylock? What happened to your face?"          

"Never mind that now. Where's Antonio?"           

Ignazio looks puzzled. "I know not. Shall I seek him out?"           

"Do not trouble thyself, there's other business for thee. I wish thee to go to the church and seek out one Brother Rafaele. Ask him when he might make time to come to this house. Bring him back with thee, if thou canst."           

My servant stares. "A priest? In truth?"           

"Yes, yes, I'm quite aware that the devil is now selling ice picks, but get thee gone. He's at the church past the market. Thou hast a way to go." I chose that church deliberately to be far from my home so that I might always have an excuse to enter late.          

"Yes, Master Shylock, and I might wish myself there and back already, but though the heavens might grant such quick and celestial conveyance for a priest, I doubt they'll do as much for me!" Ignazio salutes and marches out the door. I snort and ascend the stairs to sweep up the mess I made when I smashed the goblet.           

After disposing of the shards, I check the chest on reflex to see if there remains aught worth selling. No, that dish set is hardly of value with a goblet broken, and the silver candlesticks are tarnished enough that…           

Those are Leah's Shabbat candlesticks.           

I want to light them.           

I hastily push away that thought. It resides too close to grief to be safely examined, and is out of the question with devout Christians in the house in any case. Though I'm not sure one could call Ignazio devout.           

But Antonio is. I recall his minute examination of the Bible directly before I was to take his flesh in the courtroom. And 'twas Sunday yesterday—he had no chance to confess. Ordinarily, I would care not—uttering one's wrongs to a priest hardly excuses them, even were I to wish Antonio's wrongs excused—but if Brother Rafaele is to come to my house, perhaps he might fulfill that duty as well. It does not escape me that this is the closest I've come to apologizing to anyone in years, but I choose to ignore the fact.           

I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose. This means I have to find the man, whom it is doubtful desires to be found. 

**OoOoO**

That 'doubtful' has turned into a certainty twenty minutes later, when I stomp down the stairs in as ill a humor as I can achieve without literally spouting smoke from my ears. Hunting for stray Christians around my house was _not_ how I had planned to spend my day.         

"Mud-rolling slave," I mutter, kicking at the wall. "I should throw him into the street for—" The street. Oh. Damn and curse every singular god under the sun and send them all to hell. Antonio is obviously not in my house. Therefore, he has run off. Why did I not notice before that his boots were gone?          

I grab my own footwear and start yanking it on. Idiotic, cross-eyed, mongrel hedgehog! What possessed him to leave? Has he been lying about his situation this entire time? If so, why stay? If not, where does he think he is to go?           

I shove my way out the door. There's no doubt in my mind that if Antonio had a refuge more pleasant than my house, he would never have landed here. Does he even _have_ a plan? Well, he's foolish enough to go wandering around without one.           

But probably not so foolish as to go back to the Rialto, where he's most likely to be recognized. Though that hardly narrows the options. I fight down an inexplicable surge of panic and try to think. I can truly only see two choices, however—start with the right or start with the left. There's little doubt that Antonio associates the right-hand walk with the Rialto, therefore, the left is the best place to begin.           

I push through crowds, trying to look everywhere. Damn the man—he would try the patience of his own grandmother! I step on several people's toes and receive yelps of indignation as a reward, accidentally-on-purpose jam my elbow into the ribs of a man directly in my path, and dodge out of the group.           

I should not be doing this. I should go home, and celebrate that Antonio has taken this burden off my head with no encouragement from me.           

I do not. I keep walking. Keep searching.


	6. Go Forth and Sin No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of this chapter is told from Antonio's perspective. I think I've made it pretty clear where the transition comes in.
> 
> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

"Thou thinkst this is _funny_ ," I mutter, stomping away from the three jeering men who just sent me on a twenty-minute journey to nowhere and no one. I know it has been more than an hour since I began, and I am feeling idiotic for trying to accomplish such an impossible task, particularly alone. I could walk here forever and gain news of naught.

"Alms, alms!" I nearly trip over the twisted legs of a lame beggar perched on the nearby stone steps. "Give a poor woman a ducat or two, Signor?"

Beggars always make me uncomfortable, since after my little taste of Venetian justice I almost became one. Nevertheless, I have dealt with several in the last few hours, since beggars are as sharp as moneylenders in determining who has coin to spare. If Antonio came their way, they were likely to observe, but so far I've done naught but eliminate dead ends.

"Here." I pull several ducats from one of my many pockets and hand them to her. "Since you asked so nicely." For a moment there I thought I would find no more. Bribes add up.

"God bless you, Signor! Nicola and I will be the happier for this!"

Nicola? I peer at the woman again and see she shares her ragged blanket with a girl not more than three.

"Look here. I search for someone who might have passed by." I give her a brief description of Antonio as he was when I last saw him.

"I am sorry, Signor, but I have seen no one like that." I'm about to turn away when the girl—Nicola?—speaks.

"There's a man hiding there." I jump. Three-year-olds do not speak with that level of clarity. "Around the corner of that house. I saw him go in and he has not come out." She must be older than she looks. Lack of food, I suspect. It's not unusual.

"Which house, Nicola?" her guardian asks.

She points. "Where the gondola is tied up. He was walking like a drunk."

I am _not_ going to hope the man this Nicola has spotted is Antonio. I will hope he's someone completely different, a man actually drunk and not, in all probability, swaying with pain. I follow Nicola's pointing finger and stride around the corner.

He's crumpled. It's the look of someone who's walked until he can only crawl, the look of a man who knows that he has nowhere to go and no one who will come looking for him. The hunch in his spine, the crook of his arms, and the pale tightness in his face, all show plainly that he has stopped fighting.

But I have not. I know not when Antonio's plight came to symbolize for me all the ills of the world I had never been able to stop, and it matters little. To give up on him now, it seems, is the same as giving up on myself, on my own ability to act humanely despite being treated as a kicked dog for most of my life. No doubt this is unreasonable. But when has reason alone begotten good?

"Why do you do this to yourself?"

Antonio jerks around, his eyes huge. "I am mad. Seeing things."

I roll my eyes. "I am no imagined figment, if you please. Ask every practical joker between here and the Rialto. They have certainly led me a caper."

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, you imbecilic son and heir to a leech. Did you think I was going to throw you out of my house when you have nowhere to go?"

Antonio blinks. "Yes. Actually. That was exactly what I thought. As a matter of fact, it's exactly what I deserve."

I almost topple over backwards in shock. "You…what?"

Antonio bites his lip and looks away. "I broke God's laws with Bassanio. We betrayed Portia after she saved my life. I am no more of a Christian than…than you. There's no use…" He breaks off, gasping and clutching his ribs. "I fell…I could not walk…"

I'd spotted the scours from stone on his hands and knees. "Well, of course you did. You were _supposed_ to be resting."

"Stop looking out for me!"

"Too late," I reply, with a mixture of horror and satisfaction. "You wanted me to learn about mercy, yes? Well, this is mercy my style. Mercy as revenge, mercy when you want it least—usurer's mercy. You asked for it."

Antonio digs his fingernails into the wooden wall. "And if I cannot hate you, how do you expect me to—to maintain morality?"

"Oh, damn morality." I crouch down beside him. "It just gets in the way of doing the right thing."

He laughs, wincing. "What, are you proposing that we go to hell together?"

"Why not? If you must choose between two evils, why not pick the one you have not tried yet?"

Antonio shakes his head. "I never thought you would come after me. It just…You are utterly insane, you do know that?"

"Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea of it." I wrap an arm around Antonio's shoulders and firmly inform myself that I do _not_ feel _any_ relief whatsoever. "Come on. We are going home."

**OoOoO**

"There you are!" Ignazio bounds out into the hallway from the kitchen. "He has been waiting and waiting and—what happened?"

"Someone was an idiot and it was not me," I snap. "Ignazio, kindly take Antonio back to his room and make sure he stays there."

"You cannot just tell me what to do," Antonio protests.

"Oh, yes, I can. You watch," I retort. "You are not going anywhere until you can prove that you have spent at least ten minutes of every day to the right of the line between mad and sane."

"Ten whole minutes?" Ignazio cocks his head. "Even I cannot do that."

"Why did I hire thee?"

"You did not wish to at first," Ignazio says cheerily. "But then you were won over by my charm and wit. Come on, Signor Antonio. You look properly done over."

"I am not sleeping in that bed," Antonio informs me as my servant slings an arm around his shoulders.

I'll be driven to drink soon if I do not take care. "Have it thy own way. Sleep on the floor. Sleep standing on thy head. I do not give a—"

"Signor Shylock?" Brother Rafaele pokes his head out of the kitchen. "Your servant told me you wished to see me. Are you sure you are feeling quite well?"

"I'm fairly sure I'm not, but I did wish to see you." I turn to Antonio. "Thou art staying in this house if we have to lock every door and window and live on starvation rations, thou—" I stop myself just in time from using words that would set Brother Rafaele's hair on end.

"He'll do it too," Ignazio informed Antonio, leading him towards the stairs. "Master Shylock never leaves the house unless he must anyway. I remember once—"

I glance at Brother Rafaele. "Let us go to the kitchen." He nods, and leads the way inside.

"Your servant is very...garrulous."

"I fear if I keep company with him for much longer, I shall forget the sound of my own voice," I grumble. "But never mind that. Would you be willing to take Antonio's confession?"

"Certainly, but why could he not attend church himself?"

"The doctor has said he should not leave the house just now."

"I see," Brother Rafaele says slowly. "And yet he did."

"I expect he thought he had to," I reply curtly. "That he was no longer welcome here."

"You truly are not friends, are you?"

"No."

Brother Rafaele looks closely at me. "You did not ask me here merely to hear this man's confession."

"True, but I think it best if you speak to him first." I pause. "You'll understand at least some of the situation better."

"Very well, then. I shall."

**_Antonio_ **

I hold the banister in a death grip as Shylock's servant and I make our slow way up the stairs. Pain jars through my stone-notched shins every time they knock against the wood, and my knees are weak enough that that's not an uncommon occurrence.

"Are you quite sure you will not accept any help?" Ignazio offers, obviously concerned. "It's no trouble."

The sheer idea of his laying hands on me at the moment is enough to set my stomach rolling. The doctor a few days ago was bad enough. "No, I thank thee."

"You do not wish me to touch you," Ignazio observes. "But you let Master Shylock help you home."

"I had no choice," I snap, more harshly than I had meant. "That man never lends an ear to anyone's wishes."

"Sometimes what we wish for is not what we truly want," Ignazio says thoughtfully. "I once wished for a really big jar of honey, but I got Rosalba instead. She's much better." I let the babble of his voice quiet to a buzz in my attempt to merely put one foot in front of the other. If I fall down the stairs, it's entirely possible I'll break my neck. As appealing as part of me finds that idea (and I am not nearly as disturbed as I should be at my attraction to death) it's more likely that I'll merely end up with more bruises and have to listen to Shylock shout at me.

Ignazio opens the door to the room and I flee to the only place where I feel even moderately safe: the corner with the blanket and pillow I grabbed off the bed. At least I have slept here for the past two nights and nothing has come to hurt me. So much cannot be said for any place I tried to rest outside this house.

The door closes and my muscles finally unclench, from where they were knotted tight enough to make me dizzy. A small part of my mind ridicules me for choosing, of all places, a Jew's house for my refuge, but I ignore it. For one, I had little choice in the matter and have no energy to rectify it now, and for another, it seems absurd to mock Shylock when I have sunk so far myself.

There is a quiet knock on the door, and I nearly jump out of my skin. My host would merely kick it open to prove he could, and Ignazio would probably forget to signal more out of carelessness than malice. "Who is it?"

The priest whom I glimpsed when we entered the house peers around the door. "May I come in, Signor Antonio?"

I sit up, attempting to smooth the pain out of my face. "Yes, of course. Might I ask why you are here?"

The priest laughs a little as he enters the room. "Well might you ask. I was surprised to be invited myself..." He shuts the door, and I feel tension twist in my stomach. This is appalling—from a man of God there can be nothing to worry about! But that cursed trembling that seems to commence every time I am alone in a room with someone has already begun.

"Perhaps Signor Shylock did not say—I am Brother Rafaele. I am still not sure why he asked me here today, but he says you wish for confession?"

My fear vanishes for a moment as I stare at him, utterly stunned that Shylock would think of that. The man is a Christian in name only; I could have guessed that before, and these few days have only confirmed it. He would not send for a priest on his own account, so it must have been for mine. And he must have sent after I screamed at him in such a way that if our places had been changed, I should have thrown him from my house.

Brother Rafaele clears his throat, pulling me from my confused thoughts. Confession? The opportunity is too precious to pass up. Who knows when I'll have it again? "I do."

"That is very well." Brother Rafaele reaches for his bible as I kneel. "Begin when you are ready."

The familiar ritual is deeply comforting, more so than returning to my home would be, after what went on there. I firmly block that knowledge from my mind, that it might not taint my memory of what I do now. "Bless me, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession. My sins are..." my voice trails off. Usually I think about what I will say beforehand, ponder what is serious enough to be confessed. My relationship with Bassanio is, of course, but I confessed that last Sunday and have not engaged in the act since. Though I have certainly thought about it.

"I have coveted...that which is my neighbor's." The priest nods. "And I have..." I stop. Is what I said to Shylock truly a sin? He certainly returned it in kind. Unbidden, I recall a scrap of biblical verse once read in a revisiting of Mark: _"But I say to you, if you are angry with your brother, you will be liable to judgment, and if you insult your brother, you will be liable to counsel, and if you say, 'thou fool,' you will be liable to the hell of fire."_

Shylock is not my brother, not my equal, and never will be! Surely I must not be sorry for insulting the one who wishes me dead.

"He can hardly wish you dead," remarks Brother Rafaele, and I realize with horror that I have been muttering out loud. My mind must truly be dissolving. "Else he would not—Signor Antonio, are you sure you are all right?"

"I will do." I wave a hand, attempting to appear casual. "I shall rest when we are finished."

"That would be for the best, I should think. You look quite ill. I could perhaps return later, if you find yourself unable..."

"No!" My voice sounds unnaturally loud in my own ears. "He might not let you come back..."

"Do you mean Signor Shylock?" Brother Rafaele says curiously. "I think you underestimate him. But if you believe so, why stay here?"

"I...I have nowhere else to go." I find my hands clenching and unclenching in the blanket still-half wrapped around me. "And no one who would take me in."

"No friends?"

I snort. "I deserve none."

"That's quite a condemnation."

"True, nevertheless. I lie, I deceive, I offer to sell my body in exchange for safety. Even Shylock would not take that offer, and heaven knows he has sinned enough in his life. I live a life of perversion, but at least I have done _penance_ enough for that." I spit out the last sentences, barely aware that my limbs are shaking terribly.

"I am sorry?" The priest sounds almost fearful, as if he's out of his depth. I blame him not, I am certainly out of mine, but my tongue seems to be veering quickly out of my control.

"I was too weak to stop it, I fought but it was not enough, and now I am falling apart under the memory. I confess...I confess that if I had a knife now I would kill every last one of them in their beds and then cut my wrists open and let myself bleed to death. And if I went to hell for that it could be no worse than what I suffer now." I look up from my trembling hands and see two Brother Rafaeles. "I am sorry. I do not think—"

When I awaken from what must have been a faint, it is to an unnatural quantity of cold water being dripped onto my face. "Aaah! Stop it!"

 _"Now_ he wakes up," Shylock grumbles, grabbing his bowl of water away before my flailing arms can knock it over. "Thou art far too much work for a man so short."

"Thou art barely taller!"

"This is my house. You are short if I say you are. And you scared Brother Rafaele half to death. He thinks you are going to kill some unnamed people and then yourself. Are there not rules against terrifying the priest in confession?"

"You are a fine one to talk. You would not know a proper confession if it hit you on the head in a dark alley."

"So do you plan to go to hell now?"

"Why not? _They'll_ be in heaven, after they confess and do penance." I am unprepared for the bitterness in my voice.

"Learning why I detest confession, are you not?"

"They said it erased sins," I mutter sardonically. "Perhaps for the sinner. To think, I always felt so cleansed afterwards. It must have made the people I wronged sick, to know I walked around without feeling in the least penitent..." My voice trails off.

"Yes, it did," Shylock says sharply. "And heaven only knows why I am sorry you feel the same way now, but I am. You are forgetting one thing, though. If you go to hell, 'tis where I'll be."

I shrug. "You could try to cut my heart out right now. I would not stop you."

"Yes, you made it quite clear you want to die. Well, I do not plan to let you. That would be more obliging than is my custom."

"Why are you doing this?" I say slowly.

Shylock rolls his eyes. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because I want to know how soon you are going to decide it's not worth it any longer."

"Is that why you keep testing my patience? Because you are sure I'll throw you out sooner or later, and you want to get it over with?"

The question surprises me. "I...I do not know."

"Well, know this." Shylock sits back on his heels. "Two weeks before thee and Bassanio came to ask me for a bond, certain of thy friends known to both of us trapped me in an alley and took my purse. I still can recall every place they hit me and kicked me. A bruise on my right shin. A swollen left knee. Two broken fingers on my left hand. A dislocated right shoulder. A black eye from a fist and a bruised cheekbone from being shoved into a column. So if you ever wondered where the money came from to treat you to supper that night, when Solanio, Salarino, and Gratiano had had hardly a ducat between them before—you know."

I do not meet his eyes. I cannot.

Shylock picks up the bowl of water and rises to his feet. "So if I can keep you in my house with the memory of that in me, do not think insults and foolish acts will put me off." He moves out the door and closes it, leaving me with reeling thoughts.

When I finally venture out my room into the kitchen, Ignazio is chatting as usual. But I do notice one thing different.

All the knives are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Antonio considers homosexuality a sin, as would most people at the time. I personally believe that homosexuality is perfectly acceptable; this is historical context.  
> As per confession—Not being a Catholic myself, I've had to do my best with research. That being said, I hasten to add that it is not the custom to terrify the priest when you are making confession, nor, if you are doing it right, should you walk away feeling it is all right to sin again.  
> I never envisioned Antonio as being particularly short. Shylock is just irritable.


	7. Feeding Pigeons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by Anbessette. Many thanks!

I am selecting herbs from the kitchen shelves Wednesday morning when there's a knock at the door. After a moment, Ignazio's skitter sounds in the hall, and it occurs to me that more people have come and gone in the last five days than have passed through my house in the past six months. My servant must be off the wall for wanting to bring his bride here. She'll probably run screaming in the opposite direction. My own daughter fled soon enough. I hear Ignazio's enthusiastic voice ranting to whoever is at the door as two sets of footsteps grow gradually closer, and snort quietly to myself. If his constant yammering did not scare her off, perhaps there was hope yet.

"Master Shylock?" Ignazio pokes his head into the kitchen. "There's a messenger come from Signor Tubal."

"What does he want?"

"I did not ask. But I like him."

"After knowing him for all of ten seconds," I mutter. "Thou wouldst show a murderer with a drawn knife in here without suspicion."

"I would _not._ A sheathed knife, perhaps." Ignazio's head disappears from the doorway, and I hear his voice. "He's in a good mood. You can come in."

A good mood? I am never in a _good mood._ Ignazio has obviously set a goal for himself of even more outlandish statements. 'Tis a pity I cannot seem to terrify him into submission.

A tall man with a brown beard enters my kitchen cautiously, hands clasped behind his back. "What is it?" I catch his look of surprise at the marjoram, mint, and sage piled in the crook of my arm. "I am cooking. Dost thou have a problem with thy eyes?"

"Of...of course not." The messenger glances at Ignazio for help.

"Just say what you came for," my servant says cheerfully. "It's my job to cater to his strange whims, not yours."

"I do not have strange whims," I grumble, turning to settle the herbs on the counter beside the mortar and pestle. "What does Tubal have to say?"

"Ah. He sends word that if your offer still stands, he'll dine with you tomorrow."

I had nearly forgotten I had extended that offer, but now, reminded of it, I cannot but be pleased. Perhaps my interaction with Tubal will come down on the right side of normal. "Tell him I shall be glad to see him." I dust herb-leaves off my hands and retrieve a ducat from my pocket—still significantly depleted from yesterday. "Here, for thy pains."

"Thank you, Signor." The messenger hurries out of the kitchen, and a moment later I hear him open the door and quit the house.

"You have not forgotten you told me to bring Rosalba here today, have you?" Ignazio says anxiously. "As she could not leave her duties yesterday?"

"No, I have not forgotten," I reply, grabbing mint and parsley off the shelf, and placing them between the mortar and the eggs I have already secured. "I hope thou hast not been such a fool as to court her without her parents' consent."

"She has none."

"Her master's consent, then?"

"Oh, he does not mind. I asked his permission, and he told me he would consider it a favor if I got rid of her, since—" Ignazio suddenly halts, looking guilty.

"Since what?"

Ignazio waves his hand in a vain attempt to appear casual. "He just—he has—odd ideas. It probably comes from all that drinking. But he says if we marry soon he'll give her money for her dowry!" Ignazio stops and reconsiders. "Well, he might have just wanted me to stop talking at him. But it's better than nothing!"

"Oh, so she has not much dowry of her own? Is that what thou mean'st?"

"Not much, no, but I care not."

I shake my head. Leave it to Ignazio to throw away a chance to increase his finances because he was _in love._ Catch me doing that. "When will she arrive?"

"She said the other maids could spare her well enough this morning. May I go now, to show her the way?"

"Go." I begin ripping leaves from the herbs, and stuffing them into the mortar. "And take some time out of thy wooing to explain to her just what she's getting into."

"Yes, Master Shylock, sir!" Ignazio salutes and bounds from the kitchen.

I groan and begin to beat the herbs with the pestle. "At least someone is happy."

"He does seem to have a gift for it," remarks Antonio from just outside the door. His voice is rough, and when I glance up, his eyes are red, facts which I steadfastly ignore.

"Foolish."

Antonio frowns. "What, your servant being happy?"

"No, you, coxcomb," I say dryly. "Volunteering to spend more time in my company. You certainly hid away yesterday. I hardly saw you."

"You would not have seen me at all if you did not insist on dragging me in here and trying to force food down my throat."

"If you want to throw away my good cooking, that's your loss." At least him taking permanent refuge in the upper room made it easier to conceal where I had hidden the knives. Besides, it's not as if I want to spend time in Antonio's company.

"IsthereanythingIcando?"

I turn around, pestle in hand and eyebrows raised. "What was that?"

"I, uh, I asked if, if there was anything. That I could do. To help." Antonio stutters to a halt.

"Pardon me. I thought you asked if there was anything you could do to help."

"I did." Antonio twists his hands together. "With the cooking. You know."

I think privately that it's becoming increasingly apparent that I do not know anything. "Why?"

Antonio shrugs. "Better than sitting around."

"Very well. I'll measure out these herbs, and then you can grind them while I crack the eggs."

"I'll likely make a mess of it." Antonio sits gingerly on a stool. "I've never cooked..."

I shake my head and begin stripping leaves off a stem. "Do not fear. The worst thing that could happen is you break your thumb with the pestle."

"Are you threatening me?" Antonio asks dryly. "Because I know you can do better. A broken thumb is mild."

"I know. I did it on purpose once."

"You did? Why?"

I toss the empty stem aside and pick up another. "Jessica was listening in on one of my meetings. When the debtors found her, they shut her hand in the door. I decided it was my fault, so I found the pestle and got myself a matching broken finger." She'd been four, it had been the anniversary of Leah's death, and I had been stupid, but I had no plans to tell Antonio all that.

"But it was not your fault."

"You've been trying to die since you arrived here. That's worse than—"

"It's different."

I shove the herb leaves into the mortar. "Care to say how?"

Antonio's reply is quiet. "It was my fault."

Is _that_ what's eating away at him so? I turn to look at Antonio at last. He looks small and pitiful, curled up on his stool. "Antonio. I am quite aware that you are an arrogant, fly-bitten gudgeon, but believe me, I am telling the truth when I say it was not your fault."

"How do you know?"

"How could it have been?"

"Life is just. It pays you back in your own coin."

I snort mirthlessly, turning to retrieve the pestle and mortar. "Life is horribly unfair, you fool." When I turn back, Antonio is looking at me as if presented with an entirely new idea. "What? It is."

Antonio opens his mouth and closes it. "I shall have to think on that awhile," he says finally.

"Do that."

**OoOoO**

Antonio disappears upstairs with his section of omelet, since eating together would probably result in us hurling our plates at each other and wasting breakfast. Avoiding this would indicate dangerous levels of congeniality that really should not exist, so I am glad to see him go.

I've saved sections of the omelet for Ignazio, and, after some thought, for his Rosalba as well. It's not long before I hear the two of them in the hall.

"Stop thy twittering and come in," I call. "I know thou art there."

Ignazio comes in, pulling behind him a girl dressed in worn but neat clothing. "This is Rosalba," he announces, beaming. "Is not she wonderful?"

Wonderful is _not_ the word I would pick to describe the current situation. Nor would I call it good, fair, or even decent. Because this is not the first time I have seen this girl, though I never knew her name. I had glimpsed her a handful of times with Launcelot Gobbo, and heard him laughing with his friends about his little Moorish whore, but paid them no mind. And I had completely forgotten, that in the days following Jessica's flight, a dark-skinned, desperate-looking girl had come to my door seeking my old servant, who had just gone into Bassanio's service. Now I know why.

Launcelot Gobbo's little Moorish whore is Ignazio's Rosalba. And she's carrying a baby.

Ignazio is still smiling, but that's just because he's crazy. The girl—Rosalba—looks downright terrified. I _feel_ downright terrified. My servant wants to marry a Moor who has a bastard child fathered by my former servant and whose only dowry will come from a notorious drunkard. And he's wildly in love with her.

The infant has chosen this moment to begin crying—loudly—and Rosalba looks ready to faint in terror and Ignazio is _still_ smiling, damn him, as if all this is perfectly ordinary. I'll teach him to grin at me like that. "Thou impertinent, currish, pox-marked miscreant, how darest—"

"What's that noise?"

Oh, please, no. Just go away. I cannot deal with this right now.

Antonio, ignoring my unspoken pleas, steps into the kitchen doorway. "Is that a _baby?"_

"No, thou ignorant knave, it's a church bell." I snarl. "What's wrong with thee?"

Now all three of them are staring at me as at a snake ready to bite. I am viciously glad of it, for a moment, glad to drive people back with temper so I can lick my wounds.

Was I glad when I drove Jessica away?

Do I really want to hurt people who need me? Without my consent and help, Ignazio will have no wife, Rosalba and that child will have no future, and Antonio will have no home. Why do I hesitate to refuse, hesitate to alienate them all further? Compassion is trouble, naught but a burden. It's weakness. It's something I cannot afford.

Those who hate me would have me spend all my days alone. If I unleash my anger on the only people who will put up with me, I shall be doing their will. But if, somehow, I manage to keep those in this room from hating me, that will be a very small degree of revenge. Maybe, just maybe, I do not always have to be the person everyone loathes.

Rosalba, who has managed to quiet her baby, is murmuring urgently to Ignazio; he's shaking his head. Antonio is edging for the door. "Stop. Do not go." I take a breath, and look at Rosalba. "Thou must excuse me. I was surprised. Ignazio, learn some manners and introduce us."

Ignazio's prompt and full-on smile is not quite enough to make me regret my words, though 'tis a near thing. "Master Shylock, this is my betrothed, Rosalba. Rosalba, this is my master, Signor Shylock."

Rosalba, blinking in shock, curtsies. "Ignazio has, has spoken well of you. Signor."

I snort. "He has completely misrepresented me, as thou hast seen. Canst thou sew?"

"Of course."

"Good. My clothes are wearing out. As thou has brought thy child, I assume thou wishes to keep—him? Or her?"

"Her." Rosalba's chin comes up. "I do, Signor."

I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Ignazio. Art thou truly willing to bring up a girl not thy own?"

"We talked about it," Ignazio says cheerfully. "There will be children anyway. Teresa just starts us off early. We'll keep her quiet, don't worry."

"I doubt it," I growl. "Thou know'st naught of children. She'll keep thee from thy bed at night to be sure, and half the house with thee." I grab the dish of omelet I set aside for Rosalba, and thrust it at her. "Take this outside, and educate thy betrothed on the ways of infants."

**OoOoO**

I have taken bread from the pantry that's too stale to eat, and gone out the side door to feed the pigeons. The cockeyed birds will attack anyone who feeds them on a regular basis, and I enjoy their selfishness. It means I always know what to expect. Shredding a quarter of the bread to pieces, I scatter it across the ground and watch as the creatures descend.

After talking with Rosalba, I know I have to do more planning for the future than is my wont. Between Jessica's betrayal, my humiliation at the trial, and the loss of so much of my revenue, I just had not considered that life would continue on as it always had. Until I had fallen sick from neglecting to feed myself properly, I had not realized I wanted to live at all. Even now, I concentrate mainly on those provisions necessary to get through one day or week at a time. Months or years seem too bleak to think of.

Except now I must think, because Ignazio went and decided to _marry._ The pigeons are flying at me now, so I rip more bread off the stale loaf. I'll have to help see that everything goes according to plan because he has no family to advise him. I shove off a pigeon who is slapping me with its wings. And then afterwards, there will be more wages to pay and very likely more children—heaven help me, _children._

"You are being attacked," Antonio says dryly from behind me. "Why do you feed those ungrateful things?"

I crane my neck and see him leaning against the doorframe, not casually, but as if he truly needs it as support. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they are as ugly as birds come, with those claws and orange eyes, and when you give them bread all they do is choke on it or peck at you for more. Most people I know hate pigeons."

"Yes, I know. That's why I like them. Sit down before you fall over."

Antonio carefully lowers himself to the steps a foot or so away from me. "If not the pigeons, then why were you looking so black just now?"

"Oh, that. Children."

"Children?"

"Oh, you haven't heard of them? Very small people who scream and cry at the most annoying times. And if the way our favorite servant is acting around his bride is any indication, there are going to be a lot of them, when one is more than enough."

"They are not so bad."

"Have you ever had one?"

"Well, no."

I shred more bread. "Good. They are worse than the pigeons."

"Is that all the love thou showed thy daughter? To treat her worse than a carrion bird?"

"Go stuff thy ears full of mold."

"If I had children, I would let no one break their fingers in doors." Antonio's voice carries his old smugness. "Or I would make those who did it pay."

"Oh, so you are suggesting that I could have stopped it."

"Yes."

"That I _should_ have stopped it."

"Yes!"

"And if I could not, that I should have made them pay."

"Yes! But thou didst not, did—"

"So you would have told a Jew to lay hands on a Christian to save his Jewish daughter, or to revenge her pain?"

"I—no one could have blamed you for that! You were too much of a coward—"

"Have you ever been a Jew, or had a daughter?" I demand. "Do not try to tell me what I should have done!"

"You could not even give love to your child—"

"I gave her a house, I gave her clothes, I gave her food—"

"So you thought of her like a pigeon? Someone at which to throw food occasionally?"

"I gave her everything I had! You and your Christians kicked all the love I could have given out of me!"

"Do not dare to blame us for your own cursed bitterness!"

"You did not complain a roof was nothing when I offered it to you!"

"I would rather be nothing than be a pigeon—than be here because you pity me!"

"I thought you wanted me to show some mercy?"

"I do not want to be indebted to you!" Antonio is gripping the doorframe so hard his fingers are white. "Who knows what you would ask me for in return? And you are not kind enough to demand no recompense!"

"How many times do I have to tell you? I do not want anything for this!"

"I do not want you to be kind! I want you to be a Jew!"

Silence falls as I clench my teeth together, trying so hard not to hit him that my hands are shaking. _You promised you would not._

Antonio tries to lever himself to his feet, but has to keep a hand on the wall. "I did not mean that."

"Yes, you did," I say neutrally. "You would rather sacrifice your own safety than, heaven help you, see me as a human being." I stand up. "I am going to find Ignazio. Come in when you will." I push my way through the side door and into the kitchen.

Which turns out to contain my servant. "Did you need me for something, Master Shylock? I heard you say—"

I shut the door with a snap. "I was using thee as a convenient excuse. Has thy Rosalba gone home?"

"Yes, just now." Ignazio fiddles with the cloth he's holding. "I wanted to thank you."

"For what? Losing my temper?"

"No. Because you did not throw Rosalba from the house the minute you saw her. Because you did not tell her she had to get rid of Teresa. Because you are going to let us marry." Ignazio grins. "I am no fool. I know many masters would not do as much."

"Well, I am not them. Stop smiling."

"Yes, sir, Master Shylock!"

The door opens again and Antonio shuffles in. I immediately see that he's chewing on the last third of the bread I tossed aside in my anger. "You do not have to eat that, you know. 'Tis stale."

"'Tis good enough for pigeons, is it not?"

Ignazio frowns. "What does that have to do with anything? You are not a pigeon."

I ignore my servant. "You have less sense than I thought if you are forcing down old bread to make me feel guilty."

"I'll eat what I please!"

"Fine!" I stomp out of the kitchen and towards the stairs. The urge to go back and strike that smug face is dizzying. After years of being taunted in the street, why should I take it in my own home?

I have sworn no oath to say I will not hurt him. There's no one to rebuke me if I do. I threatened Antonio's life when dozens of voices cried out against me—why do I hesitate now that they are all silent?

I throw open the chest at the top of the stairs to find the pottery with the missing piece. Three more cups meet their ends against my stone floor, and I barely resist the urge to laugh with delight as they shatter under my power. As I stand there among the shards, I suddenly understand some part of the puzzle of this week.

Jews in Venice learn about human cruelty young, hard, and fast, and there are others who learn it later. But Jewish or not, no one can help but ask why 'tis he, and not his neighbor, who's reviled or kicked or taunted. The answers we concoct are always that something is wrong with _us,_ not with those who hurt us. Jessica believed Jews were evil, and married a Christian. I believed Jews were evil, and stopped trying to be kind. And now Antonio is blaming himself for what was done to him, an action no doubt brought on by years of self-rebuke for wanting men.

I had guessed, in the past, that he hated me, the epitome of the outcast, because I reminded him of himself. Now I realize that we are more alike than ever, and because of that, I want him to live.

Whatever happens to Antonio and me—whether we are damned or saved—it seems we'll be doing it together. And that terrifies me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time I'm done here, the author's notes will be longer than the story. But this chapter does call for some historical/textual context.
> 
> In case anyone's forgotten this from the last time they read Merchant of Venice, Lorenzo makes reference to the 'Moor' who is with child by Launcelot Gobbo, and the reply of the same, in Act III, Scene V. Not exactly the most sensitive of passages, but this isn't Shakespeare's most sensitive of plays.
> 
> There were black Africans in Italy at this time, and they were most often slaves or free servants—and that's about all I could find on the web. So I'm mostly going off of what I can glean from Shakespeare's text itself—that racism was prevalent, but it wasn't unheard of for interracial marriage to take place. Portia is courted by the Prince of Morocco (though she doesn't exactly speak kindly of him) in Merchant. Hopping to another Shakespearean text, there's no legal impediment mentioned in relation to Othello and Desdemona's marriage either, and that also is supposed to take place in Venice. It may not all be exactly historically accurate, but the world I'm creating is a mesh of historical Renaissance Venice, and Shakespeare's Venice—the latter of which was created by a man who'd never been to Italy anyway.
> 
> In this time and place, it was regular for young people of the upper class to not even see their future spouse before the wedding. Those of the lower class had more freedom of choice, but marriage was still seen as an arrangement between two networks of people as opposed to just the couple. So naturally Shylock would have some say in Ignazio's and Rosalba's marriage, as it means he has to pay a new servant.


	8. Shabbat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really Long Author's Note With Various Explanations
> 
> Tubal makes references to "new banks" in this chapter. These are the Medici family banks that were beginning to open in big cities around Europe at the time of this story. The Medici banks (run by Christians) didn't charge interest as Jewish moneylenders did. Instead, they made a profit by transferring money between their branches and benefiting from the exchange rates. This is a highly simplified explanation, of course, and more details can easily be found online if you're interested.
> 
> The quotes in this chapter are from Act I, Scene III of Merchant of Venice.
> 
> I may have made mistakes in the Hebrew spelling and/or translation. I welcome feedback.
> 
> A wonderful journal on Dreamwidth called The Anachronistic Venetian Chef provided my information on Shylock's cooking. Many thanks go to allvenicechannel for writing it.
> 
> Also, I didn't make up the practice of throwing perfumed eggs at ladies during Carnival. I think the Council of Ten banned it at one point, but that seems like a pretty hard thing to enforce.

**_Antonio_ **

The footsteps, I have discovered, are the worst part.

For my first few days here, I tried to spend as much time hidden away as I could. It was the sensible thing to do, as Shylock and I were far less likely to fight that way. Ignazio has left me alone, apparently picking up on my fear of being shut in a room with any one person. Shylock, however, bursts in at regular intervals and threatens me with death unless I go to the kitchen and eat something. I hated that until I discovered it was easier than sitting up there by myself.

The first day, it was agony, hearing footfalls I could not identify. Because that was how it began, all this—lying awake, hearing steps on my stairs, and not understanding where they came from until two strange men forced their way inside and dragged me out to face the mob. The footsteps of my housemates are identifiable now—Ignazio skips and talks to himself, Shylock stomps around and slams doors—but they still nearly drive me mad at night. And any strange person—the doctor, the priest, the messenger, or Ignazio's betrothed—leaves footsteps that have me shuddering in fear.

Terror is bad enough on its own, but I never knew how being constantly frightened and in pain leaves one exhausted. Every time I try to think about what I must do next—I cannot stay in Shylock's house forever—even moving seems like too much. The obvious solution is to leave Venice and sojourn to some other city, but between my barely healed injuries and the wreck fear seems to have made of my mind, I can hardly imagine undertaking such a venture.

Shylock seems distracted at the moment, which may buy me some time. If Ignazio's chatter at breakfast is accurate, his friend (or at least former colleague; it's difficult to imagine Shylock having friends) is attending supper here today. Shylock is in the kitchen at the moment, preparing food. His cooking skills are extremely annoying. They make me actually want to eat.

I despise him, as I have cause to do, and he despises me, as, I can just admit, he has cause to do. We have barely let up fighting and insulting each other since I came through his door, and yet, for all that, he has not hurt me. It's not because he's afraid. I saw in his face yesterday that he was ready to strike me, and yet resisted. And I hate this the most.

The last thing I want is pity, from Shylock or anyone else. I think of beggars in the street and the pigeons clustered on the steps, all dependent for their food on how generous the better off are feeling that day. What they have can be taken away at any moment, and I do not know how they handle the suspense.

I had been ready to die, last Friday night. For all my life, I have taken care to appear upstanding, but I sinned in thought and deed with Bassanio, and others before him, and sinned most of all in that I could never truly repent for it. I loved my friend, and I could not cast that love away even if it went against God's law. When God punished me for my deeds by turning Bassanio away from me and delivering me into the hands of the mob, what more was left for which to live?

I was ready to die, and then came Shylock—maddening, bloodthirsty, bitter Shylock—who flatly refused to go along with my suicidal notions. I tried to starve and he made me eat. I walked out of his house and he dragged me back. I talked about cutting my wrists and he hid the knives. I tried to provoke him into hurting me and he promised he would not.

Now, having been kept alive against my will so long, I realize that I want to live. I want to believe that what happened is _not_ my fault, _not_ the just reward for a lifetime of sin. But Shylock is as cursed as I am. How can I believe his words?

**OoOoO**

"Signor Antonio? Are you asleep?"

I am not, of course. I have never been a heavy sleeper, and now I startle awake at the smallest noise. It's easy to hear Ignazio coming, and I emerge from under my blanket to blink at him. "Didst thou need me for something?"

"No. But Master Shylock says if you do not eat he'll scald you over the fire. He will not do it, but 'twill be less trouble if you pretend you are at least a bit afraid." Ignazio tilts his head to one side. "You do know he will not hurt you?"

"Well, he has not so far." I use the wall as a support to hoist myself up. "I suppose that counts for something."

"Master Shylock says you need our help." Ignazio folds his arms, his customary smile gone. "I know not why he hated you before, and I care not. I would have helped you, had he meant you ill. But if aught of harm comes to him through what he has done for you—"

"It will not," I cut in, before realizing I can hardly keep that promise.

Ignazio glances at the door. "I care about Master Shylock," he says quietly. "I may be naught but a servant, but if you mean to hurt him, I'll declare you to the city."

"I have no plans to—" I begin, then break off. I endanger everyone in this house by my very presence here.

Shylock's servant goes on. "If anyone comes looking for you, do not dare to tell them Master Shylock held you here against your will, or had any part in the injuries you bear."

"Would I do such a thing?"

Ignazio shrugs. "How should I know? We are hardly acquainted." He goes to the door, and I find the sudden return of his smile more bizarre than its disappearance. "But the food downstairs is really good, and there are portions left for us. I do hope you will not be so silly as to waste it." He vanishes, and I hear him skipping down the stairs.

Would I do such a thing? How could Ignazio even ask that? I was not so spiteful, so hateful. I had never meant to hurt anyone in my life. Had I?

I have meant to do good, and have sown pain instead. I may very well have ruined the marriage of the man I love most, and the woman who saved my life. So perhaps Ignazio is right to be concerned. If I can do that to people I care about, what could I do to Shylock?

What have I already done?

I did not hate him, not like he thinks I did. Hatred is for equals. I certainly despised him for being a Jew, but I never put much energy into it. Until my bond was forfeit, Shylock was never anything but a means to an end, an afterthought, and it never occurred to me that he would care about being stepped on or spit on anymore than a cobblestone in the street could care. So when he turned from the carefully neutral moneylender into a snarling, raging would-be murderer, it was a shocking aberration, no warning given beforehand. Or so it seemed.

The night before the trial, I sat in a cell prepared to face death, and had no idea why I was about to be killed. All I could think was that Shylock wanted revenge for my lending out money without interest. It seemed an deplorable reason, the reason of a man who valued coin above all else. After all, had not his main complaint, when his daughter married, been more about the ducats he had lost than about her flight? But now I have nothing to do but think, I cannot help but remember that one of the few times Shylock had honestly told me his grievances, there had been no mention made of money at all.

_You call me misbeliever, cutthroat dog, and spit upon my Jewish gabardine...You, who did void your rheum upon my beard, and foot me as you spurn a stranger cur over your threshold..._

But it was not enough. It could never be enough to justify murder. It had to be coin, or the unnatural desire of the Jew to kill Christ's people. So I had called him names, spit on him, tripped him once or twice. _I_ would never kill someone for that alone.

_You spat upon me Wednesday last, you spurned me such a day, another time you called me dog..._

I never took the trouble to remember all that. I never thought it was important. But I would wager Shylock did. I would wager he remembered every casual insult, every friend I had warned away, every time I had watched someone kick him and laughed. Shylock had always had his share of tormentors, and even his debtors mocked him, for they knew they could come to me to be relieved.

Shylock's rage seems a shocking aberration when one thinks of him as a cobblestone. When one thinks of him as a person, it begins to seem inevitable.

There's no point to these thoughts, I decide, they merely disturb me. It would be best to take Ignazio's advice and eat something. I rarely need the support of the wall to get me to my feet now, except when plagued with a bout of dizziness, and that reassures me somewhat. The stairs still seem perilous, but I manage well enough. I can smell the food now (I should scorn Shylock for cooking himself when he can afford to hire a servant, but I simply cannot bring myself to do it—especially since Ignazio has assured me his own cooking is deplorable).

I enter the kitchen, where Ignazio is moving towards the side door. "Do not mind me. I am just going to feed the songbirds. Master Shylock neglects them terribly."

He vanishes outside as I go to investigate the plate of fish on the stone counter. It's coated with onion sauce and almonds and currents, with various spices, and I find it as good as Ignazio has said, though a part of me wishes I was truly forced to eat stale bread and so would not have to acknowledge that Shylock has treated me well.

Food finished, I discover I dislike the idea of hiding back in the upstairs room. Fear or no fear, the time passes slowly there. But neither do I wish to associate with Ignazio. His unabashed friendliness reminds me of Gratiano, and it's best if I do not think of any of my old friends. If I do leave Venice, I doubt I'll see them again. As these thoughts are worse than loneliness, I leave the kitchen and climb the stairs.

Passing the closed door to the dining room, I hesitate. I can just hear murmurs of conversation from where I am. If I draw closer, I might be able to hear what they say. Eavesdropping is wrong, I know, but my curiosity is more than capable of overcoming that barrier. What _does_ Shylock talk about with his colleague, especially when that colleague is a Jew? 'Tis hardly likely, but there's still that part of me that believes I'll hear them speaking of blasphemous ceremonies involving Christian blood.

Were they to come towards the door, I could hear them easily, and pretend to be only passing by. As quietly as I can, I kneel down and press my ear to the crack in the door.

"—really find it so vital to distract yourself?"

"Yes, actually." That's Shylock's voice. "Besides, cooking and cleaning saves money."

"You hardly need to save money."

"I do now."

The colleague—I think I heard his name was Tubal—is silent for a moment. "It must be difficult, to be unable to practice your trade."

Shylock laughs, a sound that shocks me, for I have never heard it sound so sincere. "Truly? I hated lending money."

Truly? He did?

"It's a relief to hear someone say so!" Tubal joins in the laughter. "I still do. Everyone despises you."

"When people could not pay back what they promised, they blamed _us."_

"And now they look at these new banks for the merchants, that do not charge interest, and ask why we cannot do the same."

"They forget that _some people_ cannot open a bank in every city."

"Oh, well." Tubal sighs. "It's hard to bear the debtors ill will anyway. They may hate us, but they have problems of their own. I certainly do not envy anyone who borrowed money from you."

"True enough. I suppose you are the better man." Shylock pauses. "You learned to be patient with those who did not deserve it. I just learned how to stay angry for years."

"I am not sure I deserve that compliment."

"Well, I deserve the criticism, at least," Shylock says dryly. "It's hardly done the world any good for me to be so hateful, even if the world all but asked for it."

Tubal chuckles. "You still are one for frankness, even about yourself. I had almost forgotten."

"So had I. We used to have a good time, did we not?"

"Remember how we threw perfumed eggs at Leah and Esther?"

"I do, of course." Shylock laughs again. "Leah told me later how delighted she was I had noticed her."

A woman had _wanted_ Shylock's attention?

"I do not think Esther ever forgave me for that, much as I pined for her." Tubal's voice mocks an old sadness.

"I told you to forget her and marry Naomi, like your father wanted you to, that you'd be happier with her anyway," Shylock says smugly.

"There's no need to gloat, even if you were right. And Esther married Benjamin."

"Oh, Benjamin. The pranks he used to play on us. We had to drench him with canal water once in retribution, remember?"

Who is this man and what has he done with Shylock?

"Of course I remember. They are all merry, his family. My son wishes to wed his daughter."

"Which son—David?"

"That's right."

"He's rather young, is he not?"

"Yes, and so is she. We shall have to wait and see. I think he has weddings in his head after my daughter married a few months ago." Tubal pauses. "I would have asked you to attend, but I heard you had fallen ill and could not leave your house."

Shylock snorts. "Ill from self-neglect. It was my own fault. Besides, I would have had no wish to poison your happiness with jealousy."

"I am truly sorry about Jessica. I wish I could have done more to help you find her."

"I just wish..." Shylock's voice trails off.

"What do you wish?" Tubal asks curiously.

"She married a Christian and I hate that. If she had asked permission, I would have forbidden her. But had I known that she would just run away...Tubal, I had a daughter one day, and the next, she was gone. I would rather have consented than had no part in her marriage at all."

_What?_

Shylock goes on, his voice heavy. "I was terrified for her. Still am, some days. I do not know if Lorenzo treats her well. She would not be the first girl to have some man, Jewish or Christian, entrap her with pretty words and abandon her."

"Shylock, do not think of such things. He did not—"

"Is he going to leave her anything when he dies? Does he hit her? Does he look for love with other women? I could have found out, but she never asked!"

"Shylock—"

"What was Jessica's marriage? Some strange priest in a strange church, sprinkling water and saying words over her? A marriage without one friend present, without her own house to go to afterwards, without a contract or a proper dowry? I may not have been able to give her much love, but I could have seen to it she had those things at least! But I never got the chance."

Tubal's voice is quiet. "I am sorry."

Shylock laughs again, but this time 'tis bitter. "I thought of sending her some of her mother's things, but then I remembered she took Leah's ring and traded it for a monkey. I expect she does not want Jewish things in her Christian household."

"About that ring..." Tubal suddenly sounds awkward.

"What about it?"

"I, uh, I have it for you."

"You _what?"_

"When I spoke with the creditors about Signor Antonio's financial troubles, one of them showed it to me. At least, I think that was the one. It was a turquoise, was it not?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. I bought it back for you, and I was going to give it to you that day on the Rialto, when I brought you news of your daughter. But then, well, you were half-shouting to everyone on the street that you cared more about the money you had lost than about Jessica..."

Shylock groans. "I had forgotten that."

"...and then it sounded as if you were going to rip Signor Antonio's heart out. Which you almost did."

"I give Jews a terrible name, do I not?"

"Well, yes. I think you could tell I was angry, when we met in the market."

"Oh, I remember."

"But Naomi talked me around. She told me to come tonight, and I am glad I did. Even if you still are the most sarcastic person I have ever met." There is a rustle of cloth on cloth. "Here is the ring."

For a moment, they are so quiet I am afraid they will hear me breathing outside the door. Then Shylock simply says, "Thank you."

Tubal clears his throat. "Speaking of..."

"Speaking of what?" Tubal says something I cannot hear. "Oh, yes, he's alive. You do not have to be so quiet, no one outside will hear us. The doctor took care of him, and he seems to be recovering."

"So he's still here?"

They are speaking of me, I realize, and prepare myself to hear nothing good.

Shylock's voice is exasperated. "Yes, he's still here. We do nothing but fight."

"I am not surprised."

"No, of course not. I could fight with a pot of water for not boiling. And he's afraid of everything just now, so of course he lashes out."

"What will happen to him?"

"I know not. I suppose I could—" Shylock stops. "He needs help," he says abruptly. "He's terrified, because he has no safe place. I almost wish I could give him that, for the time he needed it...but he would not accept it from me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." Shylock's tone suggests that the subject is closed, and he and Tubal turn to other matters. I creep away from the door and into the room where I have been sleeping.

The bewilderment that has been gnawing at my mind since I came to this house threatens to overwhelm me now. I cannot reconcile what I just learned—what I have been learning all week—with the image I hold of Shylock, the image of a man who would have cut out my heart. He's not the kind of man to have friends and jest with them, to tease or court a woman, to admit he made mistakes. He's not the kind of man whose servants defend him, who resists hitting his enemy, who opens his door to an injured stranger. And yet, he has done all these things.

In my life, I have caused pain. I have tempted Bassanio into sinful ways, and those ways may have cost him his wife's love. I have tormented Shylock when he has not deserved it as well as when he has. But I devoutly hope I have done good as well. I have given money and employment to those who need it. I have been a good friend to Gratiano and Lorenzo and others. That does not alone make me a good man, just as the pain I have caused does not alone make me an evil man. I am neither, in truth. I am just human.

It shames me now to realize I made these excuses for myself, but could not make them for Shylock. But I could no more see the man behind the myth of the Jew than he could have greeted my taunts with equanimity. I thought myself so far above him, but we are only two people struggling to do the right thing with the evidence we see.

Now I have new evidence. But I am still not sure what the right thing is.

**_Shylock_ **

I have no reason whatsoever to be hunting for candles to light this Friday night. If anything, I am more angry at whatever God exists than I was at the beginning of the week. After all, it was supposedly His laws that left a broken wreck on my doorstep. The harshness of Antonio's pain had sent him far beyond that place where he could derive any good lesson from it. The only point of it was revenge, and if God was so much like me, He hardly deserved to be worshipped.

Earlier, though, I polished the silver candlesticks. I sought out wine and the goblets I had not yet broken. I cleared a table and spread a cloth on it. The reason for this I know not, for I have no one with whom to celebrate Shabbat. Even if I did, it would not be a proper service without challah, which I have had no time to make.

But somehow none of that seems to matter. What I long for is rest, and Shabbat promises that. What I long for is guidance, though I hardly want it from the image of God I've built up in my head.

I remember Leah lighting these very candles, her face softly glowing. The flame I hold catches the wick and burns. These words have power, she told me once. Even if at first you're mouthing them for convenience's sake, if you say them often enough, you begin to believe.

Unfortunately, it's not songs of praise I have mouthed to myself over the years. It's prayers for revenge, unholy prayers, and I cared not if they reached God or Satan as long as I got what I wanted. And Leah was right. I did begin to believe them.

Words hurt. Misbeliever, cutthroat dog, sodomite, sinner. I needed songs of praise to stand up against them. As the ritual requires, I cover my eyes with my hands.

_"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melech ha'olam, asher kid'shanu be'mitz'votav v'tzivanu l'had'lik neir shel Shabbat."_

"What does that mean?"

I whip around to see Antonio standing in the doorway, dropping my hands from my face. Curse it all, how was I supposed to know he had left his room? He'd been up there almost all week. "What are you doing here?"

Antonio shrank back. "I'll just, ah, go away then."

"Back to that hole you've been hiding in since you got here? I think not. Go talk to Ignazio. Make it so I don't have to."

"I do not want to talk to Ignazio." Antonio folds his arms. "He reminds me of my friends."

There's not much I can say to that, but I expect something more is going on. "You fear to be alone with him."

Antonio slumps. "Yes."

"To be alone with any man."

"Yes."

"Well." I look at the candles. "That's hardly surprising, given what has happened. And yet you are alone with me now."

"If you want to hurt me I cannot stop it," Antonio mumbles.

"A good philosophy," I say sarcastically. "It will get you far in life."

"Must you always force the truth?" Antonio demands. "I spend my days up there unable to forget even a second of what that gang did to me. I would rather hear you recite that heathen tongue."

"It's Hebrew," I snap, shuddering inwardly at the thought of anyone constantly reliving being raped and beaten. "The language your precious Bible was originally written in."

"Very well. Educate me." Antonio sits down across from me. "What do those words mean?"

"The prayer?" I shrug. "It means: 'Blessed are you, Lord, our God, sovereign of the universe. You have sanctified us with Your commandments and command us to kindle the lights of Shabbat.'"

Antonio blinks. "I see."

"What were you expecting? 'I am a murderous blasphemer'?"

"No, thou craven fool." Antonio rolls his eyes. "Truthfully, I knew not what to expect. Do you still do this..." he waved a hand toward the candles, "...often?"

"Never from the trial until now." I reach for the goblets and fill two of them, resigning myself to Antonio's presence. "You must be a bad influence on me."

"Thank you," Antonio says dryly.

"You are welcome. Do not drink until I have said the blessing."

"Oh. Should I cover my eyes as you were doing when I came in?"

"No need," I reply, surprised by the courtesy. "This prayer does not require it." Antonio nods, and I begin.

"What does that mean?" he inquires when I finish.

"It's the story of Creation. On the seventh day God rested, so we do too. And it thanks Him for the fruit of the vine. You can drink now. It's not Christian blood."

"Very funny." He sips the wine gingerly. "Your sense of humor is a positive ray of sunshine."

"I dislike sunshine. It's frivolous."

"Is there anything you like?"

"Everyone likes something. I like pigeons, and cooking, and not being told what to do."

"But what about people? Do you not love anyone?"

"Of course, thou dolt," I reply, stung. "I love Jessica. I loved Leah when she was alive, and—" I cut myself off. "And you care because...?"

"I do not."

"Fair enough." I take another drink and change the subject. "Have you thought of where you'll go when you are well enough to travel?"

Antonio laughs bitterly. "Well enough to travel. Every time I even think of stepping out of this house I grow dizzy with fear."

Through and through terrified. Who had the right to wreck another person's life like this? "Curse that gang to hell and back!" I hurl the goblet at the wall. It flies to pieces with a delightful crash.

Antonio cringes. "What are you doing?"

"Losing my temper. You should try it." I walk to the corner and begin heaving out the chest with the rest of the pottery.

"Try losing my temper?"

"Absolutely." I turn back around. "'Tis very satisfying. You ought to have no trouble with it."

Antonio huddles down in his chair. "I cannot."

"Do not be absurd. You can start by smashing that goblet on the floor. Pretend 'tis your enemy."

"Must I?"

"Antonio, you have at least a dozen men to hate that I know of, and the only person you have shouted at is me. You need to feel _something_ besides fear."

"I should not be angry, 'tis not..."

I fold my arms. "If you do not throw that goblet down in the next five seconds, I am sending you back to your room."

The goblet hits the floor and shatters. Antonio looks startled, as if he does not quite realize it was he who did that. "I have never broken anything on purpose before."

"Then you are behind on your education," I tell him, pulling out another plate. "Try this. It shall drive me mad, watching you turn all your rage on yourself."

A wild look comes into Antonio's eyes. He seizes the plate and flings it down, where it bursts into fragments. Without asking, he goes for the rest of the pottery set in the box. I watch, half horrified and half proud, as Antonio demolishes every cup and dish he can find. They thump on the floor, shatter on the walls, and make the windows rattle.

And then, suddenly, there's quiet, no sound but the wine dripping on the floor and our breathing. Antonio is shaking. "I did not mean to do that," he whispers.

"I am glad you did," I reply.

Antonio's voice is ragged. "I do not want to be pitied!"

"I am not pitying you!"

"Then why all this?" Antonio rasps out. "Why did you open your door to me, with all the sins I have?"

"When you are hurt, I do not see your sins. I only see a person as broken as I am. I do not know why I opened my door to you, but that is why I let you stay." I take in a breath and blow it out. "That bastard of a lawyer in the courtroom said the quality of mercy is not strained. It's ridiculous. There is nothing more difficult."

"Are you sorry?"

I do not even think about it. "No, I am not."

"Mercy that's given easily is of less value. You are worthy of respect for what you have done."

Looking into Antonio's face, I see no scorn. I know my own face reflects no malice. Such small changes, yet such a miracle.

"I thank you for that."

Neither of us says any more. We simply stand here, amid the smashed pottery and spilled wine, with the light of the candles glowing around us. Searching for the blessing in brokenness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I originally finished this story, I promised a sequel. And I am glad to say that I have delivered. It is entitled "Friday Night Candles" and can be found on my author's page. Check it out!
> 
> Many thanks belong to Anbessette, my beta, who has stuck with me through a process that's taken more than a year.
> 
> Writing Usurer's Mercy has been a crazy road, and part of what makes it so great are all those who've reviewed or will in the future. Thank you so much for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoyed the story.


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